Rings of rust
by OtherwiseD
Summary: Speculative completion of the tale from end of season 4. Luring and catching RJ and closing with romance. K for some of the RJ scenes.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello,  
I suspect I'll regret starting this, but it's begun and I'll try to see it through._

_This one is a Red John story. I am very tired of him and wish the chapter would close. I'd like to see what Jane becomes after that. I hear that the show is slated for another three seasons – and I expect the RJ thing is what will drive them – so I wondered how it could play out.  
I took this from the day after the final season 4 end and cooked-up my own plan. I'm not American so there's plenty detail I just can't supply. I tried to make it plausible, there's enough room for a cop procedural before the hammer comes down. _

_If I were Jane, I don't think I'd sit around quite so much. Would you? With his skills and the hours at night/weekends to work with. Surely he could be laying traps and working angles. The passivity of the time-line irks me. Ah well, that's what FF is for!_

_And, without any question, Jane/Lisbon conclusion. How can it be else?_

_Right, incipit:_

**Rings of rust.**

Within his memory palace, Patrick had cleared a circus-ring of space. He sat within, lit from above, surrounded by black background. Walking around him, in a small orbit, was his dead wife. She kept constant vigil in this space, waiting for him to visit.  
He knew this was not really Angela; merely a reflection of himself. She was a rational ghost, a sounding-board he had created. Even-so, he felt a complex thrill each time she strolled into view, and a dull ache when she left.

"We have many things to consider Patrick," she said. Her voice dopplered, as she circled.  
"I know." He replied, not really looking at the ghost.  
"List them." She commanded.  
He sighed, "Must I? We do this every night." It was a never-ending conversation. To the right of the simple bench, on the dusty ring-floor was a box. The Red John case files, committed to memory over the years.  
In answer, Angela simply continued walking. She was a carousel horse on an infinite loop.  
"I have tried everything." He held his hands up to block the light coming from above the scene. "Nothing works, that much was true six months ago."  
"So, John wins?"  
"I can't allow that."  
"If nothing works," came the relentless voice of his conscience, "then what's left?"  
"Something." He whispered.  
"But nothing eclipses something Patrick. Nothing means there's nothing left."  
"Something must be there. I wish it so."  
"Then list them."  
He shifted his position. In the physical world he was immobile on his leather couch in the CBI. Part of him filtered the many sounds from that sphere. Wayne, Cho and Grace were atypically quiet. Lisbon had been sequestered with the higher-ups all day.  
He returned to the ring.

One. John has eyes in the FBI. Those eyes probably extend into the CBI.  
Two. He will never trust me again. He was almost a mark, but now he's a carny.  
Three. He must silence Lorelei, unless she's yet another ruse.  
Four. He will come for Teresa — and here he felt actual fear — and likely one or more of the team.  
"Go on," said Angela.  
"It means, I can trust only her and that she may die."  
That was the essence. He was between the Devil and the deep red sea.  
"I can't stay here," he meant the CBI. Angela nodded, "And I can't drop-out again. That act is blown."  
"John is supernatural." She said plainly.  
"I can't think that!" He said aloud, his voice breaking into the world.

"Jane?" Grace asked. The others fell silent.  
"He's not speaking to us," Cho observed, dismissing the moment.

I won't accept that. He softened, realizing he'd been overheard.  
"If he is not supernatural, then he must be natural."  
"A man."  
"If he is a man," round and round, "he must be weak — somewhere."  
"But nothing works." The old complaint circled as often as Angela.  
"How long do we wait Patrick?"  
He paused. How long? Another year; another ten? How many victims would John claim in that time?  
"How much more failure can I take?"  
"As much as takes you to the grave, my darling." Came the reply.  
"And if I stop trying, before then?" He looked up at her as she passed. "Do I get to live for a while?"  
"You know the answer to that."  
I can't give up. It didn't need saying.  
"Summarize." Commanded the ghost.  
"I cannot reach him within the law, I cannot reach him alone. I cannot turn away, he will not let me. I cannot risk Teresa or the others and I cannot save them."  
"Do you care?"  
It was a hurtful question, coming from his own psyche. There was no need to defend himself in here.  
"Yes." It was simple.  
He cared about the others. He cared about Teresa, but that was another layer of the palace, a flight of steps down beneath the ring that he never visited. He cared that John was free. He cared that he was losing the fight, that he was less.  
"Which care is stronger?"  
"John can't be better than me. Can he?"  
"A better mind. A better actor. A better predator?" Her voice sing-songed, hypnotically.  
"No!" He was agitated.

"—ake up!" Someone was tugging his jacket. "Jane."  
It was Grace, her perfume was signature. "You're having a bad dream—"  
He shrugged and turned into the pillows.  
"Fine." She said, obviously hurt.  
"Leave him be." Came Wayne's voice.

"So, you fear he is better than you. Is that all you care about?" The circus again.  
"No. You know it's not!"  
"Tsk tsk. Raising your voice to your imaginary wife." She chided him, "You are not well."  
He smiled. For a moment he wondered if there was another memory palace within the ghost's head, with a homunculus Jane sitting in a smaller ring and another ghost circling him.  
"Fleas and dogs to bite 'em—"  
"So on, ad infinitum." She finished.  
"I can't help it, Angela. It's almost ten years." He paused again. She kept pacing.  
"Ten years," he said sadly, "of being isolated."  
"You do know that you are getting worse, don't you love?"  
"I do," he rubbed his head, "I'm talking to a ghost."  
"Touché." She said, from behind him. Her voice circling, "But humour won't protect you from the facts."  
"I may die before I finish this—"  
"childish," she interjected.  
"— vendetta." He carried-on, disregarding the irony of his own mind.  
"But what are you without your revenge?"  
"I'm also a ghost, how can I know?" He answered his ghost.  
"Is there nothing real for you?" She asked.  
"There might be, but I'm not alive."  
"Kristina Fry may have been perfect, after all."  
Now this was a new thought. He looked more closely at it.  
"She was interesting."  
"So close to the past, so redolent of your talents." Said Angela.  
"She was almost.. you.. but more—"  
"And now she's undead; another similarity." The ghost pointed out.  
"So, I was attracted to her because she reminds me of you?"  
"Of course. Because you are lost in time Patrick."  
"Is that?"  
"Yes, it's his weapon. He has locked you into your past."

"Every moment is amber." He spoke aloud, waking up.

He blinked his eyes, the room came into focus. The others were watching him slyly. He grinned and sat slowly.  
"Hello." He said ruefully. They acknowledged him for a moment before looking away, their trust obviously wavering.  
He stretched, arms akimbo, "Anyone seen Lisbon?" He asked.  
"She's still upstairs." Cho.  
"I think I'll go see what's keeping her." He stood quickly and slid out.  
"What was that all about?" Asked Wayne.  
"Who knows." Cho said, aggressive.

..xx..

Teresa had endured a long day of double and triple questions fired at her from all sides. Agent Darcy had wavered, going from stern to defensive. She could not decide which side the FBI agent was on.  
All she knew was that she felt terribly alone and there was no sun. Red John was a cloud that ate the sky. With each failure she had lost hope.  
Imagine what Jane is feeling, she scolded herself.  
Jane. Her partner; her friend. That strange tormented man who could be anything at all. Who was he? She had seen him flow from role to role; one act after another. There were no seams to his illusions. How could she know which was the real Jane; which truths shared were true?  
She expelled a breath, her face scrunching into that trademark Lisbon look. How powerless could a person feel before they simply gave-up feeling?

"Found you!" It was Jane. She was not in the mood and fury suddenly rose.  
"So what?"  
"Uh—" He blinked. They were temporarily alone in a corridor.  
She raised her arms and cocked her head, "What do you want, Jane?"  
Caught by surprise and still dazed by his ghost he could not stop himself from saying, "To talk to you."  
She dropped her arms and took a deep breath. "Yeah, that would be a good idea."  
"That's the spirit." He said, mustering lightness.  
"A good idea, but bad timing." She started moving again, "Later perhaps."


	2. Chapter 2

_I've written everything up to Chapter 4, but after that it may slow quite a bit.  
This chapter is the one that potentially spans many months. I liken it to Season 5 and 6 in the future. _

**A talk and a season.**

She found him upstairs.  
"Come in."  
She slid the old door open and stepped in. "So."  
In reply he waved her to the wooden chair. He remained on the little bed, legs over the side.  
Teresa sat, her tension filling the room.  
"You look like I feel," she said, giving him a small smile.  
"I believe you."  
They stayed quiet for an awkward while. She did not know how to begin and he did not know what to do. Every few beats they would look at each other and faces would react; a smile, a widening of an eye.  
Eventually Jane said, "I gave up — it was my last gambit."  
"I know." Was all she could say.  
"Are you still my friend, Lisbon?"  
This strange tack showed in her eyes as she looked up. The pause before she spoke was a surprise to them both.  
Am I? She asked herself. It was a conversation she often had in her rare free time.  
"Who are you, really?" She raised and dropped her shoulders. "Six months ago I would have said yes, in a heartbeat."

"I thought I'd shared myself with her." He spoke to Angela, between the moments. "I thought she knew me."  
"Can you blame her Patrick? You have kept her in the audience, in the front row but behind the ropes."  
"I have been honest with her from the start!" He argued inside.  
"Perhaps, but you have also deceived her. How can she know which is which?"

"I'm me," he said aloud, "still the same."  
She shook her head slowly. "The same. That might be it." A pause, "Why did you ask me that?"  
He leaned back, "I need to know."  
"Of course I'm your friend Jane. I don't know why and I don't like it, but if you're anything it has to be that."  
He smiled a little. "Thank you Lisbon. I don't have many of those."  
She snorted. "You don't have any."  
More silence intruded. She started feeling anxious and mildly trapped. To shift the uncomfortable mood she asked, "What next?"  
Jane let out a sigh and visibly crumpled. "I wish I knew."  
"We _have_ tried just about everything." She fidgeted with the chair, she was tired. The frantic pace of yesterday was dogging her. Jane, the FBI, the death of Wainright, Lorelei; Jane's lover—  
Why does that bother me, she wondered? Oh come on, she answered herself, that's obvious — if you face it. But how could she trust a shifting horizon? Anyway, she told herself, he's not my type.

"I have never really spent time with her," Jane told Angela, "thinking back now.."  
"You switch on and off like a robot," Angela supplied. "What happens when you're not on a case?"  
"I— I'm not sure." He had to accept it. He came back to that room, under that grim smile. Or he went to the motel, or stayed at the CBI. Regardless, those hours were lost, void. He spoke to his ghost, mostly.

"This is something." Jane said. She glanced up, a little lost in her thoughts.  
"What is?"  
"This—" His hand gestured you-me.  
"Talking?"  
"And not talking."  
"Jane, you went away for six months. You just.."  
"I'm sorry Lisbon. I had no choice."  
She flared, "You son of a bitch." He had every choice. He could have—  
Jane flinched. "I'm sorry." He could only repeat it.  
"You could have told me."  
"There was no way." He sat up again, holding her eyes. "I said I would protect you, I promised Bosco."  
"Damnit!" She smacked the chair with a fist. "Who the hell do you think I am? Some broken girl that needs a—" She skipped it, too complex. "I told you— I don't need protecting."  
"It's an instinct. I don't think it, I feel it."  
She paused.  
"I'll ask you again. Who are you?" Her eyes drilled into his. To her wonder he looked down, no smart retort on his tongue.  
"You won't say?" She asked. He remained quiet.  
"Then how the hell can I know?" Her hands fell to her sides. "This is— This is weird, even for you."  
"It will be better tomorrow." He said, moving to stand. It has to be.  
"Yeah, sure." She beat him to it and made for the door.  
"I'll be here." He said to her back.  
Sure, but will I? She thought as she left.

..xx..

"Boss?" Grace was still in.  
"It's late. Go home." She said, too tired to handle any new drama.  
Grace looked hurt, but she was better at hiding it these days. Lisbon relented. "Okay, what is it? I'm tired Grace, it's been a long day." They went into her office.  
"I won't keep you long Teresa," Grace only used her name when the talk was personal. She fell into her chair and waited.  
"We want to know what's going on. I'm worried about — all of us."  
"That's a tough question."  
The agent's face became stern, "I think you should tell him."  
Teresa's eyes grew, "Tell who what?"  
"Tell Jane how you feel."  
Teresa moaned. This is all I need, she thought.  
"Van Pelt," she used the name to make space, "I don't know where you are going, but I am not in any kind of mood to follow."  
Grace bit her lip. She thought about what to say, how to force her friend to see what was in front of her but she hit a wall.  
"Um, sorry Boss. I guess I'm— we're all—"  
"A little lost and tired," she smiled with the last of her energy. "I get it. Go home Grace"

"Face it woman," she spoke to herself, "that man has trapped you."  
She knew it. It had been this way for eight years. She had once told him that even her career was disposable, if it could help him. Teresa did not spend much time thinking along these lines; she knew where madness lay. She knew that she was wasting time, the seconds of her life. She knew it had to change, but the details scared her. Like a mirror that would show the unflattering truth, there was a conversation she could have within herself but never did. She never looked into that mirror and that was the only thing keeping her going.  
Turning the light off, Teresa left the office. Another barren night in her apartment beckoned. Barren and rust-tinged by the cloud that covered them all.

..xx..

Time passed in its busy way. It felt like the old team was coming back together. Wayne's endless stories about his son became the glue that involved even Jane. Their closing rates went up and LaRoche, their new-old Boss, was starting to warm-up to them.  
Jane and Lisbon did not risk speaking about off-case topics. Like two skaters they passed within polite radius, aware of the thin ice and their combined weight.  
Lorelei was alive, an aberration given the history of such suspects. Jane visited her daily. She was not singing as he had predicted and he seemed reluctant to step-up the pressure. Teresa could almost understand why; when you push the big Red button, you start a war. Perhaps war was already here, but they ignored it. Everyone needs room to breathe.

LaRoche had met with Teresa and Jane a few times. The tension between the Chief and the consultant had relaxed, they were almost friendly. She suspected that Jane had fixed something broken. In answer, Jane he'd said only, "The Tupperware was a lie."  
Small victories.  
Together they had concluded that RJ had eyes in the FBI and here. They held their meetings in private and kept their conclusions to themselves. Agent Darcy was on the top of the new suspect-list. Bertram had not been eliminated either.

..xx..

Jane was happy with his performance. The team had accepted him, to a degree. He had managed to deflect the RJ situation to a back-burner and he was keeping his distance from Lisbon.  
"They know better, but they _want_ to think that things are back to normal." He said to his ghost.  
He had moved into a new home, full-time, no longer spending after-hours at the CBI. The new place was unusual in many respects, for a start it was a warehouse.  
"A part well-played my darling."  
He could thank her, but it was moot; he was talking to himself here.  
"I don't know why John has not come for Lorelei." He said instead.  
"It's another game."  
"It must be." He said.  
"He wants her alive. The piece is still in play."  
"I'm ready."

He turned to watch a bank of screens. Lisbon's front and back door, all entrances, were displayed on the top row. Below that was Rigby's place, below that Cho's, then LaRoche and Bertram. He was still working on covering Darcy, she moved around a lot more and he would not risk her suspicion.  
Lisbon was at home, he could see the television flickering. All was normal, people moving about behind their curtains and blinds, lights going on and off as they used different rooms. He checked the street cameras, nothing stood-out. There was no intrusion into any of their lives, no misplaced dog walkers or out of place vehicles.  
On a laptop he watched several live maps tracking GPS signals from many cell phones. Only Darcy was moving — driving away from L.A.  
The final camera showed Lorelei in her cell. The picture was split to watch the outside too. She was reading a book and still looked quite happy with herself.  
"What is the hold that he has on them?" He asked Angela.  
"Hypnotism, suggestion, idealism, love. The usual."  
"They gladly step-up and die for him, that's beyond the usual."  
"Don't be coy Jane, you could produce the same kind of soldier," Round and round she paced.  
He knew she was right.

His clean-phone rang. By various means he replaced the number every day. It was Mashburn.  
"Walter, checking on me?"  
"You know it. How are the new feeds?" The man's voice was choppy from encryption artefacts.  
"Perfect, although Darcy is still eluding me."  
"We'll get that sorted soon. I have a team flying-in from Germany to do it."  
"Good."  
"How is Teresa?" Walter asked. Jane smiled. He was sweet on her.  
"Watching some television show. Dancing with the cooks or something."  
"Could I visit her?"  
"You know the situation Walter."  
There was a metallic sigh, "I do. It sucks." Jane smiled widely. There was no reason that Walter could not 'visit' Lisbon, but it gave Jane immeasurable joy to keep them apart.  
"Slowly slowly catchee monkey." He said to deflect the issue.  
"I know Patrick, but this is boring. I'm bored."

Walter had jumped at Jane's offer. While Jane's accounts were good, he did not want to signal anything. Walter had deep pockets and contacts around the world. The two had formed a secret cabal dedicated to protecting the team and finally catching John. They had designed it as a cell-like operation. The teams that installed cameras did not know about the other teams installing the other cameras. They were recruited from various countries and paid from a complex network of companies and banks, the sort of thing that Walter revelled in.  
The warehouse had been procured in a similar way, under many layers and disguises. On the face of it it was a small business that traded in fish. Jane had a sealed-off back section that no one even knew existed. The place had a nice choice of anonymous entry routes, all coming through a set of secure doors and gates. He could come and go along different paths and never be seen.  
He and Walter had installed the screens and laptops. Jane would not allow a stranger into the heart of the lair.

The only thing that could go wrong was Red John turning-out to be Walter.  
"His voice is not the same." Angela; it was their best evidence for trusting the playboy. Even so, Jane kept a few secrets aside — just in case.

..xx..

So the ocean rolled, the moon arced across time, the cases opened and closed. Jane spent every free moment preparing and waiting for the storm.


	3. Chapter 3

_The dam breaks and RJ comes pouring out. Avanti!_

**Burning bridges.**

Things went very bad, very quickly. Only two months had passed. Two months of something like being normal cops. Teresa was enjoying the feeling of Jane being her friend. She appreciated his distance; it gave her time to think, to reason herself down from an emotional ledge. She did not trust feelings; when had they ever steered her right? The way Jane had treated her in those last climactic days had been intense. The hug, those words, his deflection, his hand around hers.  
Not thinking about it was all she could do. It made her angry to feel weak and sometimes, just sometimes, Jane made her weak. It was a deviation, a quirk. The graph of her social contracts had to include same wayward points, it was only to be expected.  
"Cho, what's the status with the search?" She was talking to her team, it was halfway through a crazy day and their latest case involved finding a teenager who had gone missing.  
"Nothing new." Cho, terse. She looked at Grace.  
"I'm still tracking-down his teacher."  
As Wayne was about to report, his phone rang. "Excuse me," he held a finger up and answered. Lisbon tapped her elbows as she waited. Rigsby's face clouded and fell. His arm dropped like a dead-thing; the phone clattered to the floor.  
"Wayne!" Said Grace, all her concern and secret love revealed.  
"Agent? Hello?" The voice from the phone called. Wayne staggered back and slumped into his chair. His face was a rictus of shock, his eyes almost wider than his mouth. Grace ran across to him and took his arms. Teresa scooped the phone to her ear.  
"This is agent Lisbon, what's going on?"  
"Agent, this is Sheriff Dunne of—" She cut him off. "What happened?"  
"Ma'am I am at the home of an Agent Rigsby. His wife and son have been—" there was a pause, "killed."  
"Oh God, oh God. No."

..xx..

It was Red John, his symbol large and pounding against the wall. Wayne had been taken to the hospital and sedated. She had never seen someone collapse and explode at the same time. Cho had physically restrained him and the two agents had taken him away. She hoped that he was out, sleeping through this terror.  
Jane was in the room, standing almost to attention. For a moment she had the clearest insight into his mind she had ever experienced. The doorway, the room, the bodies, the smiley face. Jane encountering his slaughtered family. It took everything she had to suppress the urge to hold him.  
"Jane," she said, coming between him and the scene, "maybe you shouldn't be here."  
He looked at her and time stopped. The pain on his face was clear water into his soul. His cheeks were wet from tears.  
"Lisbon." And he could say no more.  
Despite herself, she took his hand, clenching it.

Crime scene people soon bustled-in and the work of life around death began, a time-lapse of a rodent being consumed by bacteria and insects. Still as a stick in the frame, Jane stood and watched. Eventually the sun set and Teresa managed to tug him by the arm outside.  
"It's time." He said to her.  
"Uh, what do you mean?"  
He looked into her eyes and blinked, "We have to meet John head-on now. There's no choice left."  
She set her mouth in a grim line, "Agreed."  
"You must be ready to burn the law Lisbon." Jane emphasized the words, speaking slowly.  
"I have always been ready."  
He smiled at her. Yes, she has.

He took her to the warehouse; she didn't ask any questions. Somehow she expected this level of preparation, knew that the CBI should have been thinking on the same scale.  
"Walter is helping us." He explained to her. "Tea?"  
"Mashburn?" She said, nodding yes. Jane started the kettle. He watched her as she scanned the screens, her eyes flashing when she recognized her home. She shot him a look which he ignored by dipping the tea bags instead.  
"You have been busy."  
He smiled in answer, bringing the cups over. "Sit." He motioned to a second chair.  
"You have cameras on us. Does that mean—"  
"Yes." He said, tapping some keys, "Here's Wayne's."  
They skimmed through the last few hours. A man in a cap, not too tall, white, knocked on the door. It was opened by Sarah who then went through a pantomime of signing for delivery of a parcel. Then the man looked around, obviously checking if they were alone. His face was hidden by shadow. Suddenly he pushed Sarah in her chest and the door was slammed-shut. Nothing more could be seen for over half an hour. They skipped ahead. The door opened and the man left, walking out of view. Jane switched to the street footage. They tracked him leaving in a plain grey sedan.  
"Was that Red John." She asked, breathless.  
"Who knows? We can't make assumptions. It _was_ his work."  
"So how the hell do we catch him? What has this film done for us?"  
Jane was also disappointed. "I installed these to watch over you—"  
"It wasn't your fault." She said. He sipped his tea.  
"I have a plan," he said after a moment, "do you want to hear it?"  
"Of course. A plan is always good."  
"You're not going to like it." He warned .  
"Jane, please don't state the obvious."

..xx..

They moved quickly. Cho and Van Pelt would be left out of things. If a career was going to be sacrificed, it was going to be her own. The first thing was to ensure that Lorelei was safe. The second was to convince LaRoche to approve their plan. The third, well, she didn't want to think that far ahead.  
Jane had laid it out for her. "You might not come back from this Lisbon, but you can't let anyone see."  
"I _can_ act." She had replied, looking grim.  
"You must be hard inside," he had taken her hand again, "and cold. You are going to deceive the ones you love and those who trust you."  
She knew it was too late now. Her innocent world had crashed into Jane's dark stage.  
"This is me you're talking to. Have a little faith."  
He felt his heart leap.

"I can't feel this." He spoke to Angela. "Not now."  
"You can't help it my darling." She replied.  
"It's going to slow me down."  
"You know it will do the opposite. Why don't you try?"  
"Having faith?"  
"Just so."  
"I don't know."  
"She has never let you down Jane. She knows you and she's still here. You owe it to her."  
"Faith—"

..xx..

Her phone was ringing off the hook as she entered headquarters. LaRoche was looking for her.  
Cho was waiting. "Van Pelt is with Rigsby. What next Boss?"  
Lisbon closed her phone. "Cho, play this close to your chest. Protect Lorelei."  
The imperturbable agent blinked once and then nodded.  
"Stay with her. Do not let anyone approach. Use your firearm if you must. Trust no one"  
"I understand." He said, running.

"Agent Lisbon, where have you been?" LaRoche simply appeared. "Where is Agent Cho going?"  
"Sir, please listen to me, we don't have any time."  
He waited; he did trust this fiery woman and he knew the score.  
"Sir," she said, drawing him into a walk, "We have a plan to bait Red John. Cho is following my orders to protect and isolate Lorelei — under armed guard."  
"My office." He said.

Jane cornered a reporter. It was almost seven PM but there were various crews in and out. The news about the recent homicides was already running. Lisbon watched him, their plan recently approved, with great caution, by LaRoche. It was all up to him now. He had to get the tone just right.  
"Mr. Jane, what can you tell us about the murder of—" Jane let the reporter prattle for a while. He sat on his couch, the ever-present tea-cup perched atop his folded knee.  
"Susan," he flowed into the first pause, "this is not the time for vulgar sound-bites."

"What do you mean Mr. Jane?"  
"If you will shut up and let me speak?" He took a patient sip. The cameraman smiled as the reporter gasped and stammered for a moment.  
Jane quipped, "Any time. May I?" She nodded.

"Red John," Jane said evenly into the camera, "old foe."  
A little circle of quiet began to spread from the couch. Faces turned to watch the intimate scene.  
"You seem to think you're better than me. Can you prove it?" He took another slow sip of tea.  
"Personally," he looked dismissively to the side, "I think you're incapable, but maybe you'll surprise me. Because—" He leaned forward slightly, "— this is boring me now. You are boring." He sat back, a little smile.  
After a pause, wherein every breath in the room was held, "The same old game. Really? Sure, there's shock value. Always good to pull a crowd, but this is me you are playing. I don't get shocked anymore. Not by you."  
He flicked something from his leg, settled the tea cup down.  
"How about a real challenge, are you monster enough?"  
Jane held his hand up. "One point to me for every innocent victim you take. One point to you when you kill me, if you can. Another point to you when you kill Agent Lisbon."  
There was a disturbance from the side. Bertram was shoving his way towards the cameras.  
"Jane, you homicidal maniac. You egotistical vermin. What the hell do you think you're—"  
Jane laughed and turned back to the camera, "As you can see, this new game is not popular. Quickly Red John. Can you beat me two points to love? I doubt it, but then I always thought of you as a sad little man."  
Bertram lunged across and grabbed the camera, interceding.  
"That's it! Interview over. I want that tape."  
Jane continued, ducking around Bertram, "You kill anyone else, you lose. Two points to play Red John. Come and get me you coward."  
"Everybody out!" Screamed Bertram. "Arrest this lunatic!"

It made great news.  
"They've run it on every channel almost without a break." Lisbon told him.  
Jane shrugged from within the holding-cell. "Meh."  
She smiled. "It'll work. You'll see."  
"Just be ready for part three Lisbon."  
She moved to the bars and Jane approached. They touched hands, transferring a small key.

..xx..

"I apologize Lisbon," LaRouche was saying. They were in Bertram's office. "I should not have allowed your plan."  
"It was foolhardy and insane." Said the director harshly.  
"In Lisbon's defence, it seemed— necessary, Sir." Replied the sombre detective with his uneven eyes floating about.  
"And you." Bertram accused Lisbon. "You should have come to me."  
Teresa said nothing. She could already feel a lightness about her; the weight of her career lifting like a balloon. It made her slightly giddy. She wondered if this was how Jane felt. Well, most days.  
Alarms sounded from far away.  
"What now?" Groaned Bertram. LaRoche winked his head around to listen, then he ran off.  
"Jane escaped!" Cho was shouting, running towards them.  
"Of course he has." Said Bertram, leaning against the corridor wall. "We should change this place from CBI to Disney."  
"He took Lorelei." Said Cho as he reached them.  
Bertram glowered. He swept his hand in a go-fix-it motion and turned away.  
"What happened?" Teresa asked.  
"I don't know Boss. It's Jane, he can escape anything."  
"How did he get past you?" LaRoche asked.  
"Tricked me." Cho summarized. LaRoche winced.  
"I think I can find him Sir." Lisbon said.  
"I'm coming too." Cho.  
"No." She stopped him. "Please go check on Grace and Wayne. What if Red John tries something else?"  
"I don't like it." Said Cho.  
"Please. I need to know they're safe. Fill them in. I'll call later."


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for the reviews (guests too). It's really nice to know other people are reading this and enjoying it. I don't get out much, so it means a lot to me._

_I have broken-out some actual prose (Gene Wolfe, highly recommended) in order to repair my horrible grammar when it comes to conversations. I will shift the style along as I learn._

_Apologies in advance for a slower pace from now. This chapter took me over six hours to write and the week is looming. I will keep going. _

**Running.**

Teresa went directly to the lair, following the twisty path that Jane had illustrated. He let her in, a little nervously. His hand brushed her hip as she entered; immediately raising her suspicions. She checked herself and found her cell missing.  
She turned, "Jane.."  
He handed her another, "Can't be too careful anymore Lisbon." He dropped her old phone and crushed it with his foot.  
"Damnit Jane, all my numbers were on there!"  
"I cloned your cell days ago, Lisbon. Have a little faith," he spoke still grinding the phone apart.  
She wondered at his phrasing, but put the new cell away quietly.  
"I wasn't followed," she said. "Where is Lorelei?"  
Jane pointed to the secure room he and Walter had built.  
She looked around the warehouse, the facts gradually sinking-in. What she had just done was relative-bad. Minelli, in the old days, would probably have scolded her; sent her away for a week. She smiled, remembering her old Boss. That memory scudded into the present: Bertram would take it bad-bad and imprison her. She thought about her team, even now wondering where she was.  
"I could do with some coffee," she said. He was oddly quiet.  
"Certainly," he said in a distant tone.

Ring-side, Jane was spinning. His palace whorled, the dust floor buzzed beneath his static feet. Angela whipped around, faster and faster.  
"D.a..a..rli..ng," her syllables strobed through the twisting chaos, "calm down, breathe."  
Sarah's mutilated body; Angela's.  
Benjamin's little corpse; Charlotte's.  
The smile the smile the smile the smile the smilethesmile—

The ghost was shouting, "P..a..aaa..trick!"

He caught himself; slowed despair, tightened resolve. The whirlwind hesitated, shrinking until Angela was still.  
"Are you back, in control?" She asked.  
"Yes," he said grimly. "But this must change."  
He snapped his arm out, pointing at the file-box. Then, a throwing motion in a quick turn. The box flipped-open and the pages rifled upwards and flew out. All around the perimeter of the ring, they stuck to unseen walls, until the box was empty.  
"Angela, these—" he motioned to the papers, photographs and detritus, "are yours."  
"I understand," she said, taking a fresh step in a new loop. She began to read and move. Around and around the ring.

"—Coffee, alright Lisbon, my pleasure," back in the world.  
She looked at him suspiciously. Where had he gone for those few seconds?  
As he fiddled with the water and cups, on a little trolley, she tried to put her life in order.  
What do you do when from one night to the next your entire world changes? She felt like she sat on a rusty trunk full of spiders; her weight could not keep the lid down. Feelings and stray hopes had been pushed into that trunk; she spent much of her life diverting emotion, rationalizing it, suppressing it. In her beloved and natural cop-mode, the trunk was easy to use and it worked. Now—  
She pictured Cho talking to Grace in urgent tones, relating the day. Was he glancing at his phone, expecting her call? And Wayne, gentle, goofy Wayne. Was he still under sedation?  
What about my brothers? It was a bright shock. They would worry.  
Get a hold, girl. You knew this was coming. Cold and hard, that's what Jane had said. I can do cold.

"Here you go," Jane was handing her a hot, steaming mug. "Thanks," she took it.  
He watched her over the steam. It was a cold night. Cold seemed to be a theme now. He hoped Teresa had taken his advice. They would both function better for it.  
"How are you coping?" he asked.  
She shrugged, her dark pupils moved upwards leaving white. He enjoyed the way her eyes spoke.  
"You know— the standard, run-of-the-mill disaster," she mocked amusement. "What's new?"  
"Cheers," he said in reply, raising his tea. Lisbon toasted back. They sat in silence, finishing their drinks.

..xx..

"Why has she not called?" Cho was pacing.  
Grace bit her lip as she sat outside Wayne's room. Within, the man slept a forced peace, imposed and all too temporary.  
"Where do you suppose she'd find Jane?" Grace asked.  
Cho punched the wall. A short movement with little heat, "Damn!"

..xx..

"Feathers!" Exclaimed Lisbon, "I've been an idiot."  
"Do tell?" Jane said.  
"That video, the car. There'll be a plate."  
"You are not entirely a missing person yet," Jane supplied.  
She grabbed her phone, saying, "Find that frame, see if you can—" but Jane was already at the keys.  
"Cho," She spoke into her cell.  
"Boss, we were getting worried. Did you find Jane?"  
"There's no time now. Uh — how's Rigsby?" She motioned Jane to hurry up. He rolled his eyes.  
"He's out, don't worry."  
"Here it is," Jane handed her a paper.  
"Is that Jane?" Cho was asking.  
"No time. I need you to run a plate," she read it off.  
"Can do," said Cho.  
"Asap Cho. Call me on, uh— the number I just used. My old cell is broken."  
"Right Boss. Grace wants to talk to you," the line went quiet for a spell.  
"Boss. What's happening? Where are you?"  
Lisbon sighed, "Grace, don't worry. I've found him and — it's complicated. We'll see you in the morning."  
"Okay. Uh, I'm sorry about the other day. What I said," Grace continued, obviously aside.  
Teresa recalled, "Don't sweat it. I'm not angry, you meant well."  
She changed her tone, giving orders, "Watch Rigsby. Don't leave him alone. You and Cho take shifts."  
"We will," Grace said.  
"And I think you can trust LaRoche, but no one else. Grace, be sure to tell Cho. Do not trust the FBI, especially not Darcy."  
"Why?"  
"No time to explain," she sighed, holding a palm to her forehead. "Don't let Darcy see your distrust. Speak with LaRoche as soon as you can. That's all," she hung up.  
"God, that was hard," she exhaled, sitting rigid in the chair.  
Jane turned away from her, biting down on his feelings. He tapped a nervous pattern onto the desk.

"What now Jane?" she asked, shifting her chair.  
He smiled, still nervous, which was unlike him, "Sleep, if we can."  
She raised her brows.  
"Bunk beds," he said, "yonder."  
Suddenly she felt the exhaustion. The hours of adrenaline concatenated, distilled.  
"Very good idea," she said, getting-up on wobbly legs. "Shotgun."  
Jane chuckled, also standing, "So, I get the top bunk then?"  
"No, shotgun means I called it," she informed him.  
"But I always take the top bunk," he mock-whined. "It's a prison thing."  
She gave him a look; he raised hands in defeat.

..xx..

Cho had been fast, his call woke her in the early hours.  
"You get any sleep?" She aked him.  
"No."  
"Well, do. You have to relieve Grace," she paused. "Thanks for the plate."  
"Goodnight Boss."  
After that she could not get back to sleep. She thought of the bunk below and felt alone. It would be nice to have arms arou— Cold. Be cold, Teresa.  
The car had been a rental. She would have to run it down tomorrow, but how? Their plan called for them to disappear, she could not walk about with a badge. Cho or Grace would follow the lead, that much she could rely on.  
Gritting her teeth to stop an expletive, she swung upright and left the bunk bed, trying not to jog it too much. The warehouse was silent, a cold grave. She tiptoed across to the secure-room to check on Lorelei. There was a small window in the heavy door. The crazy bitch — and she enjoyed a small rush of anger — was asleep on a simple mattress on the floor.  
The insane sleep like babies, she thought. Bully for them.

Jane found her asleep on the chair. He simply stood and looked at her.  
"She is beautiful," said Angela. "Inside and out."  
"That she is," he agreed.  
He had a blanket from the bed which he draped around her shoulders. Teresa mewled slightly and snuggled into the cloth.  
"A cold heart cannot break," he said.  
"Can a broken heart be cold, Jane?" the ghost parried.  
"Hearts don't enter into this," he said curtly.  
"Oh that is where you are wrong, my darling. This is all about love. Lost and found."  
He sat on the other chair and dropped into the ring. He began to walk around and study the pages.  
"Here," he found the time-line and placed the new data. The car's rental agency. He had overheard Lisbon; sleeping was not a strength he could list.

The morning light cut into the space from the high windows around the roof-line. As Teresa fluttered awake, Jane handed her a hot coffee.  
"You do read my mind," she croaked, taking it and sipping. She noticed the blanket, thought about smiling and then felt the morning cold around her. It reminded her to push down on the trunk.  
She turned to the screens, "Anything new?"  
"All is quiet on the western front," he replied. "You ready? Today you go missing and the CBI gets footage."  
"This must be new to you," she said, "sharing your plans."  
He grinned. Incredible how that expression could burst onto his face like a sun rising.  
"I always share my plans with you Lisbon."  
"Sheep-dip you do," she countered.  
"Well, alright. Maybe not all in one-go, but I get there."  
She smiled despite her cold resolve. Another sip of coffee created a pause.  
"If this keeps up," she indicated the warehouse, "I'm gonna need a toothbrush and some stuff."

..xx..

"Where is Agent Lisbon?" LaRoche was asking Grace, his wobbly eyes regarding her with force.  
Those eyes disturbed her. She could not tell exactly where they looked as they shuddered and jiggled like boiling water.  
"She said she'd be in this morning."  
"Jailbird and kidnapper in tow I presume?" He was being sarcastic.  
"I, uh, don't know Sir," she looked around for some backup.  
LaRoche decided to go easy on her, "Van Pelt; you and Agent Cho protecting Agent Rigsby? How's he doing?"  
The change of focus relaxed her, "He was still asleep when Cho relieved me, Sir. Lisbon told us to take shifts. And—"  
"Yes?"  
"She said something strange about Agent Darcy."  
LaRoche looked around slightly, "Don't say that aloud. Let's talk in private."

..xx..

The parcel of video footage showing Red John attacking Sarah caused a stir in the CBI. Hours had passed and LaRoche was explaining the situation to Bertram.  
"She hasn't called. I want to put an APB out."  
"Do so. I hate to think she's doing something stupid, acting alone with that.."  
"I find his escape too convenient, Sir."  
"So," Bertram sat back in his leather chair, "you think she and Jane engineered it?"  
LaRoche hesitated, "The evidence is not in, but, if we don't hear from her that would be my thought."  
"Damn," said Bertram. "The media is going to eat this up."  
He leaned forward, placed his hands on his desk, "Find that car and do not speak to any reporters."  
LaRoche left, shaking his bald head. Darcy passed him in the hall, heading for Bertram's.  
"Agent," she greeted him with quizzical eyes, interrogating.  
He nodded a greeting.  
"What's news?" She asked, stopping him.  
"Bertram will fill-you in," he said. He did not betray the queasy feelings she stirred. There was no real evidence against her. Time would have to tell.

..xx..

Two days passed and Lisbon was officially a missing person. There was a general hunt ongoing for both her and Jane. Rigsby had finally woken from his enforced slumber and was in the bullpen with the others.  
"They know something," he was saying bitterly.  
Grace took note of his changed appearance. His pain was drawn in new lines from the corners of his eyes, a smile that never quite made it out of the cradle, pupils that looked determined, never wavering.  
She spoke, to say something, anything, "Teresa would not abandon us without a good reason."  
Wayne glanced over to her, "I will find them and beat it out of Jane."  
Cho coughed, to attract their attention, "She may be in trouble. Jane dared Red John to kill her, on live tv."  
Wayne laughed, a cold, hollow sound, "They staged that. They're up to something."  
Grace folder her arms. "Where does that leave us?"  
Cho grunted. They didn't know.


	5. Chapter 5

_This one took five hours. I'm happy with it. There is a certain lull between flashes of action and this one centres-on the pace in the warehouse and how they handle Lorelei._

_BTW, typing "Lorelei" never fails to cause a few back-spaces. What a name!_

**Oh, cult.**

They had been at it for days. Teresa lost track of the outside world. She could not call her team and her cell number kept changing. She bit-down on these thoughts; they would not serve her.  
"Another round of discrediting," Jane said, passing her.  
"I'll update the blog," she said to his back.  
He went into the secure-room and shut the door. They had been systematically working Lorelei's subconscious. She was a victim of mind-control and they were trying to deprogramme her.  
Jane had explained that it was an unethical and chancy business. He would rather have performed an exit-council but the circumstances dictated this course. Right now, he was in there tearing into John's authority. He mixed the techniques with his own mental tricks; trying to find her trigger.  
Teresa opened a browser and logged-into the admin of their blog. Walter had created a constantly shifting chain of proxies that spanned the globe. Somewhere in the mix was an encrypted barrier which cut-down the number of hits, but they only wanted one visitor. By the voodoo of the Internet the blog had been mirrored on more popular sites – well, tweeted and whatnot. They could not control that aspect, but there was no easy way to trace posts back to the lair.

Red John was talking to them. He posted in the comments, and he was angry. Jane had pointed out that this was exactly how he wanted him. The killer's rage was focussed on them and he had taken the notion of the game seriously.  
"No points, no points, but wait a while my lambs. I burn bright," was the latest. She shuddered.  
With a few clicks she replied, "I made you along with the lambs, two points times love. Where are you? Why do you fail?"  
It was almost natural now, she had been imitating Jane's abstract taunting style for days. A copy of the works of William Blake lay open on the desk; vital fodder to lure the insane.

A cry from the secure-room distracted her. Lorelei had a set of lungs on her. She knew Jane would not physically harm her, so this was a good sign; some kind of expression could mean she was moving in the right direction.  
He came out, closing the door softly. His face was hard to read, but Teresa thought she was getting better at it. He was masking shame and frustration.  
She waved him over, "He posted again."  
"Is it making a noise?" He meant the media.  
"Lemme see," she opened another tab and checked the news feeds. "Yep."

COP COUPLE STILL MISSING IN FIGHT TO THE DEATH  
Teresa Lisbon and Patrick Jane have been missing for five days after challenging the infamous serial-killer, Red John, to a game to the death. Posting on their secret blog, the couple have been taunting the killer and the killer has been talking back—

"Enough," said Jane with a sigh, "It's so tacky."  
"It's what we need."  
"I know, but it lacks taste." He smiled shallowly.  
His face was looking messy, a few days of not shaving was bringing a new guise. She wondered what she looked like to him. She had dyed her hair – platinum blonde – and was trying different make-up. They were both preparing for what may come next.  
"You might look handsome in a few days," she joked with him.  
"And all this time, I thought I already was."  
"Dream on."

"I don't like that cop couple crap they've invented," he said to his ghost.  
Teresa had become used to his dropping-out every now and then. She watched him now, his face peaceful and blank.  
"I find it amusing," said Angela, circling. Always circling.  
"You would."  
"If I do, then you do. Q.E.D."  
He left the ring. The ring. The ring.

As he came-to, she noticed him touch his ring-finger. It was a quick motion, easily missed. She absorbed the cold from the warehouse floor, sucking it up the straws of her legs. He had been right, cold was working. It was keeping them level.  
"Where do you go?"  
"What do you mean?" He raised an eyebrow, was he slipping? Could she tell when he left?  
"You know what I mean," she waited.  
He chucked his head to break contact with her green eyes, "My memory palace."  
Of course. She should have guessed. "What part do you visit?"  
"The case files," he didn't want to talk about it. Cold. Cold is good. She nodded and moved back to the laptop.  
"Let's post something about Lorelei," he suggested. "She screamed, it's a start."  
"I heard. Okay."

..xx..

"They're posting again," Grace called the others over.  
Wayne was looking worse. He had lost weight, which was hard to believe, and his smile was a thing of the past.  
"Lemme see," he was quickly behind her, looking over her shoulder.  
"Lambs, points. What does it mean?" He asked, frustrated.  
"Wayne," she said quietly, "it'll work out."  
"Don't Grace," he scowled, "Please. Just don't."  
She nodded, jerked back to face the screen. It hurt her more than she could bear to be close and so far away.  
Cho joined them, "Lambs. Points—"  
"Yes, thanks, we've been over that," Grace finished.  
"Huh." Cho.  
Agent Darcy came into the room. "New posts?" She asked.  
The others could not help an automatic flinch. Cho stood and stepped back. Wayne folded his arms. Grace sat upright.  
"Well?"  
"Yes Boss," said Grace. Darcy had been temporarily assigned to the position, under Bertram's orders.  
"What have you found about Lorelei's background?" Darcy asked Grace.  
"I have traced her from Nevada into Los Angeles. She belonged to a lot of Churches, never staying in one for more than a month. It's her only trail."  
"Well done," said Darcy. "Keep working it."  
She turned to the men, "I know this is your focus, but there are other cases.."

..xx..

Jane returned from another session. The visits were irregular and short, but the day was full of them.  
"Is this harming her?" Teresa asked.  
"Hard to say. We're not trying to save her, we need to break-in for a moment and get some facts."  
Teresa grimaced. It went against her core to cause harm. He knew this.  
"I feel it too," he said softly. Touching her shoulder for a moment.  
He had been intimate with Lorelei, he must be conflicted.  
"I'm sorry Jane, I know you had— feelings for her."  
"Actually, I had none," he looked briefly at her. "I knew she was under control."  
"You knew she was John's?" She could not contain her surprise, edged by a little burst of hope.  
"Not as such. I noticed the signs and that made her interesting."  
Regretting it as she spoke, Teresa asked, "Then why did you sleep with her?"  
"It was my control, like a base-line. She's deeply under. John is very good at this."  
Accept it on the face, Teresa, she told herself. Don't dig. She reached for the cold which the warehouse had in ample supply.  
He watched her process the information. She was an open-book, but he didn't want to turn those pages.

"Not yet," came the voice of the circling ghost, "not yet."  
"What are you? My conscience or my creation?"  
"Both darling. I feel what you feel."

..xx..

Every night Jane dutifully took the bottom bunk. It was hard to climb the little steps past him, but when he was out of sight with only the structure of the roof overhead, she could relax.  
They settled into a rhythm that ate the time. She took her turns with Lorelei, but she was not getting anywhere. Their last session had been hard on them both.  
"Who was your first victim?" She had asked, "Who have you hurt?"  
Lorelei smiled, a creepy sincere smile that reached down to her robotic core, "I killed a man, but then so have you."  
She was cuffed to a metal ring on the floor, sitting cross-legged on her thin mattress. As instructed, Lisbon doused the light in the room. It symbolised punishment for an evasive answer. After a moment she turned it back on again.  
"Tell me about your victim."  
"Just a man, a guy," replied the crazy woman. Teresa could not get over how eerily similar she was to her. Similar build, dark hair, facial structure.  
"What did you do to him?"  
"I did what I was told." The light went off again. On.  
"Are you loved?"  
"Yes."  
"Is it love to kill?"  
"Yes."  
"If you were killed, would that be love?"  
And so on it looped. A ring of short questions – always trying to trip the mind to see its own reflection.

She lay on the bed now, tired and blue.  
"I miss my life Jane," she said aloud.  
"Be cold my dear," came his response.  
"I am and I'm tired of it."  
"Courage. We must finish this, no matter what it takes."  
She didn't reply, she was too full of the traitorous thought that she may not be strong enough.  
"You are," he was saying.  
"Sorry, what?"  
"Strong enough. Trust me."  
She rolled her eyes.  
"Don't cold-read me."  
He laughed, "I don't have to."

..xx..

Three days later, Lorelei had begun to shift. Jane had instituted a starvation diet. Teresa was feeling a fever-pitch of discomfort and they spent long hours ignoring one another.  
The moaning and sobs from the secure-room never seemed to end. They were now dealing in contradictions with her, showing her how John was not as he promised. This was thin-work because they knew so little about him.  
Jane was in there now and Teresa was doing a circuit of the floor, trying to work her stiff muscles.  
A phone rang. She ran over to the table in the centre and flipped it open.  
It was Walter, "Hey," she said.  
"Teresa!" His voice carried his excitement.  
"Why are you calling Dirty Harry?" She teased. She could hear him glow across the bad line.  
"To report that we have cameras on Agent Darcy, finally. And," he quickly followed, "to see how you are."  
"Thanks Walter. I'm fine. It's heavy, but moving forward."  
She changed the subject, "What have you heard about the team?"  
Walter told her what he knew. He paid a few people to watch the headquarters along with some other covert spying. What he had to say did not cheer her up. She was glad to hear that Rigsby was back with the team. Shocked to hear that Darcy was now the lead.  
"So they are working new cases?"  
"Yeah. It's not their beat to locate missing persons."  
Jane came out and walked over, "Walter?" She nodded.

She caught him up on the scanty news, a minute later over tea and coffee.  
"It might be time to throw Darcy a bone," he said cryptically.  
She looked him in the eye, "I'm learning to read you too."  
"You are?" He looked genuinely happy.  
"Yep, and I can see when you have something up your sleeve."  
"Fair enough. You know we need to test Darcy, and Bertram."  
"What are you thinking?" She had her own ideas. Tip them off, watch them, trap them.  
"We lead them here," he said.  
Teresa looked around, "Here? This is our only place! And what about Lorelei?"  
"Walter's been busy. We have other safe places now. And as to her —" he glanced at the door, "— well, she may be more useful as bait."  
"She won't talk?"  
"She may, but it's taking too long," he looked at her, "and taking a toll on us."  
"Have you learned anything?"  
"Yes, just now. The first thing about her past that's new," he leaned against the table. "She has always been the type, suggestible, a little like gullible Grace."  
Teresa glared at him, "Don't mock Van Pelt. Keep some sense of proportion."  
Jane smiled, waving her objection away, "I love Grace, but you have to admit, she'll swallow anything."  
"Back on topic Jane," she warned him, adding her fierce eyes to the signal. This only made him smile even more, his cheeks crinkling under his short beard.  
"Her past?"  
"Yes," she prompted.  
"Well, she belonged to more than one Church, before she left for Nevada. She's a believer – or loves to believe in belief."  
"Less twisty, more plain."  
"She was perfect material for John. And he found her between Los Angeles and Las Vegas."  
Jane moved, shifting his weight from leg to leg. As strong as his self-control was, this place was getting him down, the burden of what they were doing and the half-light of the interior.  
"I think you should get out for a while," he announced. "Walter can take you to see the other safe houses."  
She wanted to get out, "Okay. But—"  
"This," he motioned, "can't last much longer. We'll be on the move soon. Get some sun and practice being blonde." He grinned like a child.  
She grinned back, "But won't you be worried – leaving little me alone with Walter?"  
If she only knew, "You can always break his arms."

..xx..

"You're on a bus," he crouched before Lorelei, "it's on a highway. The desert is hot. The bus is crowded."  
"I'm on a bus—" She intoned.  
"What do you see?" He asked her.  
She had changed – the hard exterior polished by John had cracked. He was trying to insert gentle fingers of suggestion into the past.  
"I see the back of the chair in front of me. The sun outside. It's so hot."  
He waited, but she just rocked and hummed quietly.  
"Look to your left, what is there?"  
"The window, lover, the road, the desert."  
"And your right?"  
"The aisle, other people."  
"Who is looking at you?"  
Her eyes widened, an involuntary motion, "A friendly man. A friendly man. Friendlyman."  
She continued the mantra, "man man man man," until he tapped her shoulder.  
"You are on a bus," he began again.

..xx..

Teresa walked along a busy street, out in the open. Her reflection in the windows was strange, blonde in a loose dress, handbag. It was like watching a body snatcher. She didn't care. It was glorious to have the sky and sun above her, to hear the sounds of traffic and actually dodge people. A few men smiled at her, which was always a little thrill.  
Walter's limo was up ahead, waiting as arranged. She almost regretted it when she knocked on the glass and the door opened. It was so nice out.  
"Hello you," he greeted her, tapping the seat beside him. She smiled and hopped-in.  
"I haven't seen you alone, or in a dress, for months," he was consuming her with his eyes.  
"Down boy," she said playfully.  
He waved to the driver and they began to move. "Where are we going?" She asked.  
"You tell me. Cannes, London?"  
She laughed, it was such a bizarre shift from the last week.  
"How about the next hidey-hole you have secured?"  
"Or that," he said with a pout.

..xx..

"This is big," Grace spoke aloud. The guys were out on a case, she was alone in the hurdy-gurdy of headquarters.  
Her methodical tracing of Lorelei's past had led her to an unexpected place. On the screen was an article, from 2001, about Visualize. Mentioned in passing was their suspect.  
She quickly called Wayne.  
"Don't ask me," he said when she explained. "Tell LaRoche, and hide it from Darcy."  
Grace blinked and quickly closed the tab. "Okay then. When're you back?"  
"Dunno, this case has us out canvassing." She knew that beat.  
"Tell LaRoche, and sit on it," he said, hanging-up.


	6. Chapter 6

_Moving into the next phase of my, I'll admit, very rough plot. We let the rabbit out to see which fox will swoop._

**Who can it be now?**

Teresa spent the night at the new safe-house. Walter had tried to seduce her, but the cold was burned into her soul, she'd declined. They'd had pizza and conversation instead.  
"Thank you for helping us Walter," she'd said.  
"Are you kidding? This is— You guys.."  
"Eloquent as ever," she laughed. She knew he meant the whole spy and thrill aspect. She also knew he meant her, and possibly Jane, as a friend.  
"Well, I say less with more. Er—"  
She chuckled and took another slice.  
"What's it like being cooped-up with Jane for a week?"  
She sighed and sat back. The new place was much smaller, a discreet house in a normal neighbourhood. Backing-it was a salvage-yard, owned and run under layers, by Walter. They used it to get in and out.  
"I've worked alongside him for over eight years now," she said, lifting a glass of wine, "and this week has been longer than that."  
"That bad?" He was secretly relieved. He knew something was under the surface with Jane, but the man was a closed-box.  
She waved it off, "Not bad, just tense. We haven't been on holiday you know."  
He sobered, "I can well imagine. Has that woman said anything?"  
"A little. I suspect Jane has been doing his thing since I left."  
"You think he holds back when you're around?"  
She did think so; it was gallant and scary at the same time. What was he doing to that insane clone of herself right now?  
"Teresa?" She blinked, "Sorry, zoned out."  
The dinner was over, the mood off. "Listen, I could do with some solid sleep," she said. He looked crestfallen, but hopped to his feet.  
"You should be quite safe here," he motioned to the secure doors.  
"Thank you, and I have this," she patted her purse.  
"You'll swing that at them? It's full of lead?"  
"In a manner of speaking," she said, showing him the gun within.  
"Ah."

..xx..

KILLER CLOSING-IN ON COP COUPLE?  
Secret sources have revealed that the serial-killer Red John has located his next victims, the cop-couple that have been missing since last week. Insiders told this reporter that—

..xx..

It had been a busy few days. Jane and Teresa had moved the equipment to the new house, leaving only the secure-room, the door standing open, the bunk beds and a message on the wall behind.  
It had begun when Teresa returned from her overnight. She had caught a bus back into town and along to the riverside. From there, she was an anonymous blonde walking among the boutiques and restaurants near the docks. A visit into a small bistro and a door out the back finally took her to Jane.  
"How was your night?" He asked her, letting her in, checking behind.  
"Fine thank you, I slept well for the first time in days."  
He led her to the table in the centre, offered a chair.  
"I have news."  
She sat and waited. He tried not to look, but the dress was so fetching and her fine legs were visible. He closed his eyes for a moment.  
He exhaled and took a seat. He rubbed his head, the hand coming down to feel the foreign hair that covered his cheeks.  
"I got a little more out of her," he said.  
Teresa tensed, he noticed. "I didn't hurt her."  
"I — I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't," she spoke a little rapidly.  
"Listen Jane— This has— this has been," she hurried-on.  
"I know. Me too," he smiled – looking tired.  
"Okay, what did you learn?"

..xx..

"When he looks at you, what are you feeling?"  
Lorelei blushed. He had taken her back in time, guessing she was about twenty.  
"He has warm eyes, he smiles at me. I like it."  
"Tell me why you like it."  
"I am in control of my reality. I am one with the six dimensions."  
What? He recoiled. That was—  
"Enjoy his smile. You feel happy and safe," he intoned.  
"Happy and safe."  
"Go backwards, watch the bus coming to fetch you. Where are you?"  
"I am at a station."  
"Where are you just before that?"  
"I am in a taxi." He took her back in gradual steps.  
"What is the place you are leaving?"  
"The eye," she replied.  
"Can you see it?"  
"I visualize."  
He sat back. It couldn't be. Stiles was a conman and a socio-path, but there was no violence in him.  
"Lorelei, can you go forward again, back on the bus?"  
"Yes, lover. I am on the bus."  
"Thank you. Tell me about the smiling man. What is he wearing?"  
Bit by bit he coaxed a picture out. It was tricky work because he had to avoid leading her, avoid his bias — he liked the roguish cult-leader – he didn't want him to be John.

..xx..

"It's not Stiles?" Teresa was asking him. He snapped back into the moment.  
"No. Well, it seems not."  
"But there is a Visualize connection? The logo on the man's shirt."  
Jane nodded, "I think John was, or is, in the cult. He marked Lorelei and followed her."  
"Jesus," breathed Teresa, her hand touched her necklace.  
Jane stood and paced again. She realized that he had not left the warehouse for a moment in the entire week. He must be made of iron, or ice. This led to another insight. He had never left his head. He had never left that room where his wife and daughter lay dead.  
It flashed her thoughts to Rigsby. She could not help it, she sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Lisbon? Are you alright?" he was closer, suddenly.  
She put on a strong face, "Fine, summin' in my eye is all. When do we let her go?"  
His eyes shone. She was so clever, always alongside him, or slightly ahead.  
"So you worked it out?"  
"Duh."  
"We clear-out, set it up and then she can escape."  
"Tonight?"  
"Why not."

..xx..

The world beyond her door was preternaturally quiet. She had grown used-to the sounds of muffled voices, of chairs creaking. When had it gone silent? She'd woken-up only a moment ago to find it so.  
Feeling afraid, she tested her cuffs. They clinked against the metal loop and hurt her wrist. The light was on, which was unusual. They always turned it off.  
She was groggy and lost. A part of her recalled a different time. When she was in the presence and love washed her. Then had come capture and—  
She tugged at the cuff again, the quiet was bothering her. Did it feel different? She crawled to hoop, the cuff was on a short chain. Her eyes didn't want to focus so she felt the links until she came to one that was different.  
There might be a chance it was breaking.  
Lorelei put it to the test.  
"I'm coming father. I did as you commanded. I'm coming father—" She repeated it over and over as her arm jerked against the chain.

Then she was loose. The cuff trailed a short length of chain, but she was free of that ugly hoop. Like a wild animal she listened to the outside. She crawled to the door and pressed her ear against it. All was silence.  
Suddenly she heard them enter. Her heart dropped.  
"I'm coming father," she mumbled continuously.

"We gonna interrogate her tonight?" Came a woman's voice.  
"Meh. Let her stew. There's time." A man's. Lover! Her lover. Father had commanded her to take him.  
She listened to their sounds fade. Where they leaving? No! Footsteps came towards her door. She recoiled and slithered back to the mattress. The light went out. The footsteps retreated.  
She waited for hours, listening. Eventually she stood on unsure legs and tried the handle. Surely it would be locked? But it wasn't.  
The place was huge, dark. She half-crawled towards a section of moonlight, trying not to let the chain make the deafening sounds it wanted to. She heard a yawn come from across the space; the far wall. She froze.  
After a while, between pauses, she reached the moonlit area. It was a small corridor with a door at one end. The moon was pouring in from a window high above it.  
She could not help herself, she bolted. The chain struck the wall and made a sound like thunder and volcanoes. She hurled herself at the door and it opened.

"She's out," Jane said from downstairs.  
"I'm watching," she confirmed. "That poor girl."  
"You're sweet Lisbon," he said softly. Perhaps she didn't hear.  
He got up, "We should move."

..xx..

"It hinges on who arrives first," Jane was saying.  
They watched a screen in the house. Jane was happy because it actually had a couch. He was made for couches.  
The picture showed the warehouse, vacant and waiting.  
"What if no one comes?" She asked.  
"Could happen. Lorelei might not be able to contact John quickly."  
"So, we stare at this screen for – how long?"  
He smiled, shrugged. Her presence on the couch felt surreal. In eight years he had never spent more than two minutes so close to her. Well, not counting car drives, there had been a few of those.  
"It's a nice couch," he said, "put your head down and snooze."  
"Are you crazy? I can't snooze," she exclaimed. "Snooze. Pha!"  
"Then I'm making tea. You should try some."  
She relented.  
He was clattering away in the small kitchen when she shouted, "Jane!"  
In a flash, he was at the screen. The light had been switched-on in the warehouse and there was a figure entering from the bottom of the screen. Their camera was minute, hidden in the metal rafters, giving a birds' eye view.  
"Who is it, can you tell?" She asked, her head as close to the screen as she could get it.  
The figure used a tell-tale motion, gun extended, quick movements.  
"It's a cop, but he's wearing something on his head."  
The figure walked rapidly to the table in the centre. They watched him rifle through the papers they had left there. The secure-room attracted attention, drawing the intruder across the floor.  
"Yes, closer," Jane watched the split-screen. The second camera was mounted above the door.  
"It's Darcy!" Teresa yelped.  
The face had been clear as she moved through into the secure-room. They heard sounds from the pick-up mic. She was searching the room.  
"Is she alone?" Jane urged.  
"Looks like it," she replied. "It can't be kosher. She'd have come with backup.."  
"She's John's. I'm certain of it," Jane said coldly.  
"It could have been worse. Bertram could be there too."  
"Tells us nothing," Jane noted. "He could be waiting for a report."  
"Feathers," said Teresa.  
Darcy appeared on the screen again, she was using a cell.  
"Nothing here," they heard her say.  
She walked over to the bunk beds, crouched.  
"Here's something," she reported. "On the wall, on the bottom bunk. A face. Your symbol."  
"Got her," said Teresa, barely breathing.  
Darcy looked around quickly and then sprinted out of view.  
"John knows we're watching."

..xx..

"A new post!" yelled Grace. The others quickly joined her.  
"You missed us little tyger, did you like our gift?" She read.  
"What the hell does that mean?" Wayne groaned, his fists clenched.  
"It's a play on William Blake. Remember, Jane told us about this."  
"Oh yeah," said Rigsby.  
"What gift?" Grace asked.  
"What you all doing?" Darcy's voice. They all jerked.  
"Why do you guys always react as if I'm going to shoot you?" She asked, coming to see.  
"A new post," she observed. Grace nodded. Just then a beep sounded.  
"There's a comment," she refreshed the page.  
"Counter clockwise. Sloppy, but thank you for my gift. My daughter is happy to be with her father. Repay you soon."  
"Well, that was verbose," said Darcy.  
"Do you think the daughter is Lorelei?" Asked Wayne.  
"Must be," said Cho.

..xx..

Teresa was trying to clarify why they should tell her team about Darcy.  
"They're in danger Jane!"  
"Aren't we all?" He was being infuriating.  
"More information is better than less." She was sitting with folded arms, a stern look in her eyes.  
"The less they know, the more out of the game they'll be."  
She had to agree, but—  
"Damnit Jane, they can help us."  
"How? Rigsby would be a loose canon. Cho, maybe, but I'd prefer them to come to our rescue when we have more to go on."  
"So, I can tell Cho?" She pressed.  
He regarded her, "I'm not the boss of you," he said, turning his favourite phrase around. "Do what you think you must."  
She glared, but she didn't move. He relaxed. She knew he was right.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi, I hope this is still fun – there are so few reviews – but I'm still in the mood, so I'll keep going.  
_

_In which our heroes fluff and relax and then,_

**Hit the town.**

They spent a while on the couch, just talking.  
"Do you think Bertram has suspended me yet?"  
"Nah. He's all about the bottom-line and right now you're only missing."  
She pinched her mouth a little, a sight that he enjoyed.

His ghost sang in his head, "Happy Lisbon, sad Lisbon. Angry Lisbon, bad Lisbon. Oh, we like all the Lisbons. They're not dead. Like me."  
"You have a point?" He asked Angela.  
"Yes," she replied, on an arc behind him.

"Jane?" Teresa waved her hand before his face. Yup, he was out again. It worried her. He was under immense strain and a lot of his exuberance had fled. She relied on his quirks, his slants.

"She's waving to you, craving for you," the ghost lilted.  
"Not now, my dear departed. Just say your piece."  
"Look," she pointed to the time-line, "See?"  
"Visualize," and he saw.

He smiled suddenly. She lowered her hand, dropping her head to the side.  
"Caught you," he teased.  
She playfully back-handed him, "No. I caught you, skipping town again."  
"I had a thought!" he brightened. Like hiccups or the giggles, it caught and she mirrored it.  
He suddenly raised his finger and touched her cheek.  
"Uh, Jane?" She queried, freezing. Her pupils squinted down and her brows went up.  
"This," he said. A non-sequitur that made her smile grow, even as she kept still.  
"Yeah? Do I have something on my face?"  
"Dimples," he said, like a pleased kid.  
"What about them?" She felt herself blushing and moved her face from his finger.  
"I like them," he dropped his hand, "they're nice."  
She did her "WTF?" face – but, for a moment, felt pleased, light, even happy.  
"You're a nut. I've told you before. Get medical help."  
"And there's the old Lisbon," he said with a grin, leaning back.  
She smacked him again, looking sideways with her eyes alone.  
"What was your thought?" She asked a few beats later, shaking her head.  
He was glad to see her smile still there, the dimples framed her mouth and set up a wonderful rhythm between her eyes, down her nose and back around.  
"It sounds like an obvious pattern to miss, but I'm eighty percent sure that every appearance of John has been within range of a Visualize Church."  
"How did you work this out?"  
He tapped his head, "Busy in the palace these days."  
She blinked, amazed. She had seen him play chess without a board, count cards and win big money. She knew he could remember anything he wished, but what else could he do in that big brain?  
"Tell me," she said.  
"I have a time line going, from the case files. What Lorelei told me about John and the bus led us to the cult. I had Ang—" he stuttered.  
"Had who?"  
His face dropped, for a microsecond, before the poker-look returned.  
"—my assistant looking for patterns."  
He had almost said Angela. Could he keep a person alive in his memory? Talk to them, have them working on something while he was out here? She shook her head and blinked.  
"You never miss a chance to astound me Jane," she said, with candor.  
"Why thank you Lisbon, I aim to please."  
The connection with the cult was a good lead. In the old days— Jeez, listen to me, she thought — she would have her team all over it.  
"Is there any way we can tell LaRoche?" She asked.  
He pondered it. He wanted to involve the team but it was too risky.  
"I'd like that, but," he said. He shifted into the couch, hooking a leg over his knee. "I rather think Darcy is still there, and we can't be sure what other eyes John has."  
"You're probably right," she said, "Darcy would be crazy enough to walk-in and keep going."  
"What would you do next?" he asked.  
She also leaned-back, pleased with his behaviour. He could have excluded her, the way he always did when John appeared, but he had been — what was the word? There? A partner?  
She thought it through before speaking. A quiet stake-out silence ensued, comfortable and familiar.  
After a while, she said, "If he's at Visualise, that's where I'd poke my stick."  
He nodded, grinning. The beard had changed his face, but his own dimples, the merry folds in his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes were still there.  
She leaned on her rusty trunk again, trying to keep giddy sensations trapped. The house was not at all cold, there was no source of ice. All she felt was sleepy and warm and comfortable. It alarmed her.

He watched the complex struggle happening within her. She had been so brave recently, taking his advice and doing what had been necessary.  
"She fights what she thinks is weakness," Angela said.  
"It may well be. I'm no prize."

"It's what I'm thinking," he said aloud.  
"Huh?"  
"Poke," he mimed it, "Stick. Cult." He gave an open-mouth smile and kept poking with an invisible stick.  
"Poke, poke, poke."  
She laughed and used her own pretend stick.  
"Ouch!" he complained, grabbing his chest. "Watch where you stick that thing!"  
"Oh hush," she grinned. "You big baby."

They joked and played for a while, enjoying the escape. Tea was served and cookies shared. Lisbon had her legs crossed on the couch. Jane was still draped over his end.  
"Hey, this place even has a tv," she squealed, grabbing for the remote.  
"What is your fascination with cooks and dancers?" He asked, shifting a bit to watch the screen.  
She smiled, "Spice girls. Geddit?"  
"Ah. It makes prefect sense. If they'd been the Barbecue girls, I may have worked it out sooner."  
They watched whatever channels she felt like shifting-to. Teresa spent a lot of time explaining the obvious pop culture to him.  
"You can't be this clueless," she said.  
"I beg to differ."  
She rolled her eyes.

Jane kept very still. The television flickered, its volume on low. Teresa had fallen asleep, and like any animal under gravity she had lain down and sought heat. She was cradled on his lap, her head on his lower stomach. He had taken his jacket off and put it over her shoulders.  
Some moments should last forever, but reality doesn't care.

She woke to feel sun across her face. It felt good. Still half-under, she turned and tried to snuggle into her pillow.  
"What?" She said quietly. Her pillow felt kind of—

"Morning."  
She shot up, "Jane!"  
"I'll send you my bill," he smiled.  
She rubbed her face, sitting up. Her hands found his jacket around her.  
"Bill?"  
"I charge by the hour to be a pillow, plus rental for the blanket," he pointed his eyes at her shoulders.  
She smiled and that collided with a yawn, it made an "Eeyow" sound.  
"You must have been warm, Jane, or I'd never have—"  
Oh dear, the theme should be enforced. Be cold, be hard. He tried, but there was no motivation. The site of a sleepy Teresa in a compromising position was too perfect.  
"Coffee?" He offered.  
"God, yes." She said and climbed off the couch to seek a bathroom.

..xx..

After they had eaten, the weight of the day returned. Teresa opened the laptop and connected to their secure blog.  
"There's a new comment," she said.  
There was a small kitchen table, but the computer stuff had all been installed on the lounge table, so they were perched on the edge of the couch.  
Jane read it out, "I feel like spending a point. See Bee Eye. Who will I spy?"  
"Oh no," she said, horrified.  
"It's part of the game," he said quickly, "trust me."  
"Oddly, I do, but this is asking a lot."  
He could see the worry sketched on every part of her face. He started a reply comment.  
"Gratified to see your weakness. Are you the lamb?"  
A reply appeared within moments. It was chilling; this to-and-fro.  
"I see your game, and I won't play."  
"Then you lose and how can you get any smaller?" Jane typed.  
The screen reported, "Tyger has logged-off."  
They sat in silence for a while, the sun in the room no longer warm.  
"Do you think that worked?" She asked.  
"I sincerely hope so," he replied.  
"We have to distract him."  
"Yes, we do."  
"We also have to warn the team," her eyes implored.  
"Indeed."  
Teresa flipped her phone open, hesitated, "If we call we have to move, no?"  
"We should, but there's another place," he got up and began to pack.

She dialled Grace's number.  
"Agent Van Pelt," she answered, "How may I help you?"  
"Grace, it's me," said Teresa.  
There was a pause, she heard Grace saying, "Thanks, just put that on Cho's table."  
After a moment she was back on the phone, "Boss! Where are you? Are you okay?"  
Teresa smiled, "I'm fine Grace, listen—"  
"How's Jane? What can I do?"  
"Slow down Grace, we can't stay on this line for too long."  
Grace waited, and Teresa said, "Tell the others that RJ has threatened you."  
"We saw." Oh, she realized they must be following the blog somehow.  
"That's great! Well—"  
"We are being careful Boss. Can you tell me about," and there was another pause as Grace spoke to someone, "— about Darcy?"  
Teresa glanced at Jane, he shook his head.  
"Uh, be cautious – there's no more I can tell you now."  
"Okay Boss," there was a plaintive note in her voice. "You gotta give me something! Where are you?"  
"Grace, this call is over-long. Trust me. Be safe." She hung-up.  
"That went well," chimed Jane. Teresa scowled.  
"You know, when you make the angry-princess face— it doesn't intimidate me."  
"Hmph," she glared, double.  
He skipped back, "Now that. That's," he pointed as if in mortal fear, "That is scary."

..xx..

Eight hours later they landed at a small air-strip on the outskirts of New York City. Walter had magicked the jet for them.  
Jane had teased him, "Can I crash this one too?" But their banter was curtailed by their haste.  
"New bloody York," moaned Lisbon. They were in a taxi heading into the metropolis.  
"And we'll be in a loft suite overlooking the local Visualize church," he said.  
"Can we find another name than Church?" She asked, idly.  
He thought, "How about eyeball?"  
She laughed, "That works."

..xx..

The loft was amazing. It had views on all compass points. To the north was an older building and —

"An eyeball," Jane observed with a bounce. "It's an eyeball Lisbon!"  
"Funny man," she said.  
They went through the familiar motions of setting-up their laptops. The many screens watching the camera feeds were no longer practical and had been left with Walter. In a plastic case on the desk were new cell-phones and a file full of information about the local eyeball.  
The room they used was set-into the floor, the windows swept around beyond an open-plan array of rooms. There were many couches to pick from.  
Jane pondered them all and chose one. He leap into the air and flopped into it.  
"Perfect," he pronounced. Teresa smirked.  
He made a flip-it-open motion at the laptop. She complied.  
"Let's irk him," Jane smiled, laced his fingers, bending them backwards. He began to type.

"Ring a ring a rosy, a pocket full of posies. You missed us, you missed us. We don't fall down."  
"That should get his attention," Jane mused.  
"You didn't mention Blake," she said.  
"It feels right," he shrugged. "Let's go shopping!"  
Now that was a Jane-flip.  
"Shopping in New York City, I dunno," she pretended disdain.  
"If I can get Cho into a player-suit, then I can handle wrathful royalty."  
Wrathful roya— oh yes, the bridesmaid's gown. She laughed.  
"But what about?" Her head pointed to the eyeball.  
"Meh. I'm the beard, you're the blonde lesbian. What could go wrong?"  
"Jane!" And she punched him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Here's another, please let me know what you think, in which we are:_

**Poking at eyeballs.**

They strolled back towards their building, carrying several large bags of goods. Lisbon was wearing a new dress which was so unlike her that it made her grumpy.  
I don't feel grumpy, she thought. And she didn't. I should be grumpy!  
Jane kept a running commentary on the denizens of the city. If she believed him then half of New York was having affairs with the other half.  
They came to the final corner and took a breather.  
"This is a big town," she said looking around, up and down.  
"The Bronx is up and the Battery's down," he sang. She raised an eyebrow.  
"Sinatra and Gene Kelly!" He gave a wounded look, "How can you not know?"  
"So, there is some popular culture in you," she quipped.  
"I have hidden depths, my dear," he defended.  
She sobered after a laugh, "The eyeball is just around the corner. Let's take the back entrance."  
Jane handed her his parcels, "Will you, just for a second?"  
Without thinking, she took them.  
"See you in a moment!" And he dashed around the corner.  
"Jane!" She hollered.

He ran across the road. Lisbon peeked around the corner, feeling exposed in her dress and loaded with parcels. She saw him run up the stairs directly under the eyeball.  
"I'm gonna kill him," she fumed.

He slowed a little as he entered a vast atrium. To all sides hung Visualize banners, groups of drones milled-about. One of them saw him and pasted a zombie-smile onto his face.  
"Greetings Sir," it said, "how do you feel about your life?"  
Jane grinned, rubbing his beard. He spun about on one foot, sweeping the place with his eyes.  
"I feel miserable," he sang with cheer, coming to rest facing the young man. "How do you feel?"  
"I, ah, have a great life, sir. I want to share my secret with you."  
Good comeback, thought Jane.  
"Please do. I can't take this suffering anymore," he beamed.  
The young man looked confused, "Ah, sir, I can see you are unhappy. If you will come this way I have something that will cheer and amaze you."  
Jane swept his arm courteously, "Lead on brother, another minute of this pain will end me."  
He was taken to the iconic small table with the eyeball device. The young man gave him instructions and Jane slapped his hand over the orb.  
"Read me, brother," he grinned at the man.  
"Uh— Right. Well, I have a list of standard questions. They are designed—"  
Jane listened to the prattle. He heard the way the man read as if from an internal script, written by Stiles, no doubt. There were almost no contractions in his speech, this indicated deception or rote emotion.

While they were busy, a security drone moved closer.  
"Do you regularly think of suicide?" He was being asked.  
"All the time. You know," he laughed aloud, "life is so hard!"  
"Do you—"  
The guard came up to the table and coughed.  
"Excuse me sir," the young man said and looked at the guard.  
"Ahem. James, I apologize for the intrusion," the guard looked nervously at the orb.  
"What is it?" James asked.  
"This, uh, gentleman is on the list," he looked down his nose at Jane.  
"Yes, certainly, he's a pre-member," said James.  
"No, not that list."  
James sat up, all his bonhomie gone, "Oh."  
Jane grinned, "Took you long enough."  
"Sir, if you will please leave the building," the guard motioned.  
Jane paused. He tapped the table, spun the orb and shot to his feet.  
"In a moment!" And he walked rapidly away. The guard hastened to follow him.  
"Sir please!" But Jane kept going, changing direction.  
"Not that way!"  
"Not this way?" Jane asked, looking back.  
"No! I mean, the door is over there," he blindly pointed to the exit.  
"So it is," said Jane, stopping before a long sheet of paper tacked to a board on a corner wall. He ripped it off and rolled it up.  
"You can't!" spluttered the guard.  
"Leave?" Said Jane, dodging him and running to the exit.  
"Tell Stiles I said hi," he called before running down the stairs and getting lost in the crowd.

He tapped her shoulder. Teresa jumped with a yelp.  
"Don't do that!"  
She had been peeking from the corner, watching the eyeball.  
"When did you come out?" She grimaced. 'Must have looked away for one second. Trust Jane to choose then for a disappearing act.  
"And why the hell did you go in? You trying to blow our cover?" She dropped the packages and put her hands to her hips, her neck bent and her face red.  
Jane had to chuckle, she looked glorious.  
"They recognized me," was all he said.  
"Well of course they did!"  
"No, I mean," and he rubbed his beard like a bad actor, drawing attention to it.  
"Oh." She lifted her head.  
"It seems the jig is up."  
"Lorelei told John about us. Of course." She scowled, fingering her hair.  
"Let's make ourselves scarce, I need a shave."  
"It's a pity," she said absently as they retrieved the parcels and walked to the back entrance, "I was getting used to it."  
"Your new hair?"  
"No, _that_ I hate," she glanced at him.  
"Oh ho!" he slowly stroked his beard again.  
"Mehh," she said, "I could take it or leave it."

..xx..

"I understand, but what reason can I give?" Darcy was on her phone. She glanced around constantly, aware that she was being suspicious, but also aware that her cover was partly blown.  
She listened to his reply, "I will do as you say."  
"Boss?" Came Van Pelt's voice from the pen. Darcy walked over.  
"I've confirmed that Lorelei was a Visualize member from 2001 and that she never left the cult."  
"That's good work detective," said Darcy, trying to fit her exit into the flow.  
She had been John's – mind and body for almost the same period. She recalled how they had baited Jane with that stalker video. How she had drawn him into a web that had forced him to work outside the law, framing a dead man. John had been so proud of her. She was consummate. Even the loss of Lorelei had not phased her. Now? Now it had to come undone. Jane had identified her and her use inside the law was rapidly coming to an end.  
Darcy continued, "But why did she leave and go to Las Vegas?"  
"Red John's orders, I suppose," Grace replied.  
Darcy needed to keep Grace busy. She rubbed her chin and thought.  
"Van Pelt, I think we need to find someone who knew her as a member. Why don't you take Cho and visit that Church?"  
"Okay Boss, we'll turn the place over."  
"That's the spirit," Darcy closed the file she held and left the room. She walked directly out the door and never looked-back.  
"New York, here I come," she said to herself.

..xx..

"If we're right," Jane was saying, between mouthfuls of noodles, "John will hear and follow."  
"But, how will we know when he's here?"  
"Hard to say. I doubt he'll tip his hand on the blog. He doesn't want cops involved."  
"How do you know?"  
He waved his chopsticks, "I don't, for sure. I'm cautiously optimistic."  
Teresa chewed a while, "How do we flush him out then?"  
"I think I should call Stiles—"  
"Poke him?"  
Jane grinned, "Now you're getting it."

Naturally, Jane had the man's number. She didn't even ask, certain it involved sleight of hand and a distraction, sometime in the past.  
"Brett!" Jane greeted him like an honoured friend. He had the phone on speaker, so Teresa could hear both sides. She leaned into her own couch and watched.  
"Patrick, how nice to hear from you. You've been a naughty boy."  
Jane laughed, he obviously enjoyed the electric battle of wills that Stiles seemed to induce.  
"I visited your eyeball today."  
"My eye?— Oh, very clever. Yes, witty. Come to think of it, I did hear about a disturbance."  
"Did it come across the fifth or the sixth dimension," Jane joked, "I can never tell them apart?"  
"As it happens it was a telephone," said Stiles, amused. "Which would put it firmly in our dimension. New York, I believe."  
"Ah."  
"Yes, so why are you calling me Patrick? I know you too well to be flattered."  
Jane grinned at Teresa who rolled her eyes.  
"I think you know," Patrick replied.  
"I do?"  
"Yes, you do."  
There was a pause, they could hear the old man's breathing.  
"I told you before, if I could serve Red John to you on a platter, I would."  
"I accept that Brett, and I believe you."  
"Then what can I do for you?" A note of aggravation entered his voice.  
"I thought you'd appreciate an early warning; and — you owe me."  
"Ah! The debt comes due. Very well."  
Lisbon flashed him a look. What debt? Her eyes asked. Jane made a dismissive wave.  
"Red John is a member of your cult, don't ask me how I know, I'm certain."  
Stiles paused, "I see. The thought had occurred."  
Jane continued, "I need you to flush him out."  
"And just how do you propose I do that Patrick?"  
"You're either more divorced from the heartbeat of your operation than I thought, or you already have a good idea," Jane replied.  
"Ha! There are many ideas in this dimension."  
Jane leaned forward, hardening his voice, "Don't toy with me Brett. You know what to look for."  
Another pause.  
"Very well Patrick. I have the general idea, although— I can't guarantee what will happen."  
"You don't have to, just make it hot — roll those orbs."  
Stiles barked a laugh, "Oh what I could have done with you by my side." He hung up.

Teresa groaned, "Jane? What the hell?"  
He smiled at her, tapping his head, "I was talking to him on the fourth dimension. It's quicker that way."  
She threw a pillow at him, he ducked to the side.  
"Guess," he said after collecting the pillow.  
Hmm. If she ran a worldwide network of cultists, what would she do?  
"I'd be watching them all the time," she mused aloud.  
"You are the Prime Eyeball."  
"I want to stay in power, and we've seen some of that. I'd want to know what forces or groups are forming below me."  
"Exactly," Jane said.  
"There's no way that Stiles can miss potential threats," she agreed.  
"John is smart enough not to hit that radar," Jane supplied.  
"But he also collects drones. He seems to have friends in high places."  
"He must be visible at some level. Stiles may even know him," Jane finished.  
"And you poked the nest today," she added. "He can watch for anyone that heads to New York!"  
Jane bowed to her, "Fantastic Lisbon, you make a fine assistant."  
"Assistant my as—"  
Jane threw the pillow at her. Her yelp lifted the roof.

..xx..

She circled the ring, pausing to read and move papers about.  
"Learn anything?" Jane asked her. She shook her head.  
"I can feel it coming closer," he said to the ghost.  
"I know."  
He wondered how it would end. How he could bring the hunter in, trap him.  
Angela walked-on, ever around the ring.  
"You are isolating him."  
"I took his queen."  
"The one you know about."  
"I _have_ moved the board."  
"You are making it bigger, but it's the same game."  
"How do I shake it? Topple the pieces?"  
Angela extended a finger and ran it along the invisible wall as she walked.  
"It's a big world, maybe his power becomes thinner the further he is from his tools?"

..xx..

Teresa'd said goodnight hours ago. The loft was huge, they had a bedroom each. She watched the moon through the skylight above her bed, it cast a cold, foreign light into her soul.  
I need some cold, she knew. Things had been growing lighter, more convivial. The lid on her rusty trunk was so hard to keep closed.  
Do I need to face this now, she wondered? It bucked and kicked like a bronco.  
What am I doing? It was not the hundredth time she had asked. Why am I attracted to him? He's trouble, only trouble. He's damaged, trapped in the past. If he finally stops John, will he be the man I have known? For eight years?  
She pulled the cold light from the sky into her, subduing the beast. Maybe she would sleep.

Jane fared little better. It was becoming almost pointless to deny that he wanted more.  
"More than your past?" his ghost asked.  
"I want the now," he whispered.  
"Wanting is halfway to obtaining," she replied.  
"But, if I— If she—"  
"Comes to harm? Yes, I know."  
"And I have this thing to finish," he turned his ring.  
"We all have our rings Patrick," she said, walking around and around.

..xx..

His cell rang. Jane woke and fumbled for it. It was past two in the morning.  
"Yes?" He was cautious. Only Walter would call this number, or Lisbon, but she was asleep in another room.  
"Patrick," the electric buzz of that soft bagpipe voice coursed through him. He sat bolt upright, feeling his heart-beat soar.  
The phone was laughing at him, an endless shifting cackle. He could not speak.  
"Cat still got your tongue?" It asked.  
"Never mind my dear boy, I shan't keep you awake past your bedtime. Are you wondering how I got this number?"  
He was. Unless—  
"Maybe your good friend Brett gave it to me?" The voice fluted up and down, like it came from several different vocal chords, cut from victims and grafted-on.  
"I know you're still there Patrick, I can hear your heart racing." Jane covered the receiver with his hand, still unable to speak.  
"You think you're better than me, but I am going to disprove it. Hold onto your other point, Patrick — she's mine." The line went dead.  
He coursed out of bed, tearing across to Lisbon's room.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry for the delay – spent the day alone on a battlefield. The armies of mutant PHP and deadly Apache web-server configs combined with enemy style-sheets to cascade upon me. Plenty lines of code, bug corpses piled in heaps, not so many lines of story._

_Thanks for the reviews. It's shameful how I live on the refresh button in my mail. Please let me know what you think, negative or not._

_RJ has discombobulated Jane, again, and – oh boy:_

**Is Lisbon okay?**

"_.. — she's mine." The line went dead.  
He coursed out of bed, tearing across to Lisbon's room._

"Lisbon!" his shoulder struck the door-frame, throwing him down. He pushed to his feet.  
"Lisbon!" legs scrambling. Down a step, between the furniture. The loft now a dark wood, littered with tree-stumps. He tripped on something low, dashing his shin.  
"She can't be!" he demanded reality.  
Inside, Angela was running. She became a blur, a smear of legs and arms surrounding the ring. Fragments of speech dropped, incoherent, irrational.  
"Time no find no. Super. Na. Tural. Possimble."

"LISBON!" he cried, forcing himself up and ahead. His hand knocked an ornament over, it split the night with a crash.  
Getagripgetagrip a grip a grip! It was like being drowned, like water all around, like living under-ground, dull empty sound, we all fall down.  
He fought to bottle panic, working on his pulse, staring into the night.  
Swiftly, his eyes adjusted to the dark; he could see feint light from outside, the dim moon behind clouds, the many photons of the city.  
He oriented himself; set-off on a fast walk, weaving between obstacles. Her room was framed ahead, the door closed.  
"Lisbon?" he coughed, his voice had shrunk away, a parody of John's.  
"Lis—" her light went on.  
Jane didn't pause, he barrelled through her door.  
She was there!  
"Jane?" her voice pierced him, an arrow in his chest. He fell to his knees before the bed. She was aghast.  
He burst into mad laughter. He laughed at the skylight and then down, bowing his head to the floor. He laughed for relief and shame.  
She was at his side. Her touch banished the lunatic giggling, her arms found his shoulders and her face was at his ear.  
"What happened?" she asked.  
He took her in his arms, hugging her as if the moment was all that ever could be.

They remained on the carpet, under a wan moon, simply hugging. Time had stopped, they were travelling at light speed. Slowly, Teresa released her grip, pulling her head away. Time began.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, catching his eyes.  
She had rarely seen him so undone. Once, when he had saved her life with a shotgun, she'd peeked behind the curtain of his persona; had seen how vulnerable he was, how thin the veneer. This was similar — Something had shocked him so badly, he could not restart.  
"I thought you were gone, taken," he spoke in a rush. She felt his tears against her cheek; his arms did not let go.  
Teresa carefully disentangled herself. He finally loosed his grip until they both sat; still, close.

"I never— wanted you to see me," he wiped his face quickly, "like this."  
Her eyes closed to slits and she touched his arm.  
"Like what Jane?" she asked. "What do you think I see when I look at you?"  
She brushed the side of his face, removing another track of tears.  
"I know you," she said softly. "I know what's on the surface and under it."  
He blinked at her, trying to restart.  
"Just talk to me." she said, settling her hands into her lap.  
He began. Stopped. Started again, "I thought you'd been – taken away."  
"Why?" she asked.  
He told her.

She suddenly felt exposed beneath the skylight. Her mind populating the roof with intruders. They wore masks and red shirts; they would break that glass; come falling-in.  
Jane was silent, still looking down.  
"What are you not telling me?" she pierced to the heart of it. He jerked, his eyes jumped up.

"How does she know? What do I say?"  
The ghost replied, "Stop hiding it."

He looked into Teresa's eyes. God, was that — humiliation in his eyes? She felt her trunk kick as if Pandora wanted out. But the feelings in there would only interfere right now. She wanted to know why he felt shame and despair.  
"I was—" he faltered.  
"Go on."  
"I was afraid," he pushed the words out. "I couldn't speak when I heard his voice."  
He looked down again, "And it's not the first time."  
"The Grady Ship case?"  
He nodded, mute.  
She didn't know what to say. It was not that she blamed him, but what words could heal this?  
She reached for his hand, taking it in both of hers. A pained-smile crossed his face, she could see it in the way his brow moved..  
He spoke to the floor, "How do you defeat your fear, Lisbon?"  
She smirked as her head shook, "Bad memory?" she volunteered.  
"Heh," he grinned. She squeezed his hand.  
"I dunno Jane. I guess I take it one case at a time. There are things that scare me. Stuff scares me."  
"Like what?" he looked up.  
She thought, "Being cold! Being cold and the pain. That scares me."  
"Have you ever— lost it? Lost your will in battle?"  
"You know I have," she answered. "That shrink, the one who tried to frame me.."  
"Ah yes," he said, "hypnotism, fingers in your head."  
She nodded, "That's my Kryptonite."  
He smiled, "Thanks Lisbon."  
"Anytime." she let go his hand, watching him warily.  
"Next time," he said, his voice stronger, "I'll be ready."

They spent the next few minutes checking the loft security. The double cage-doors were steady. There was nothing on the hall camera.  
"I think we should assume this place is no longer safe," Jane was saying.  
"We can't keep jumping," she replied. "The next place will be the same."  
"Hm," he said.  
"What's the situation?" she asked, plonking down on a couch.  
Not waiting, she described it, "John and possibly Darcy are coming to New York."  
"I should think so," he said, taking to his couch.  
"Stiles may get a name."  
"And the eyeball will be where they come looking."  
"So," she concluded, "we need to leave a trail from the eyeball to here."

..xx..

Before the sun rose, they were busy. Teresa called Walter.  
"This building. Is there another apartment, one floor down, you can procure?"  
"Do you know what time it is?" he complained.  
"Fighting serial killers is hard, suck it up," she snipped. Jane beamed.  
"Uh, let me look into it," Walter promised and they broke-off.

They busied themselves with mini cameras and laying thin white cables. Jane kept looking at the time, "Walter better call soon."  
He walked along the hall, pacing out an unseen measure.  
"He'll call." she said.  
"I think I'll nip downstairs and have a look around."  
While Jane was out, her phone rang.  
"Teresa, okay — you're in luck. There's one; room 1012."  
"Thanks Walter," she said. "You left no trail, back to you, I mean?"  
"Clean, rented on a five-year lease for business. Yadda yadda," he explained.  
"Good. I gotta go."  
"Be safe."

"There's a room directly below that should do," Jane said, coming back, making a noise as he locked the gates.  
"Walter got us number 1012," she told him.  
"Pity," he said, "1009 is the one we need."  
She glared at him.  
"1012 works," he quickly amended. "It's only a bit more cable."  
"How will we lead them up here?" she asked, as they packed tools into a carry-bag.  
"You post something, mention the eyeball. I'll go down and see what suggests itself."

..xx..

When they were done, the afternoon was already late and lazy. Jane took the private elevator down. It was accessed from the front-door to the loft. A small lobby housed it and the emergency stairwell.  
The street was busy, but not enough for him to miss the drones that were out.  
"They've been told to look for us," he thought.  
"So obvious," Angela disapproved.  
"I don't have to do anything, it's already done." Just by emerging from their building's atrium he had revealed their location.  
He took a fast walk around the block, his hair standing on-edge as he imagined Darcy or John flowing-up the elevator to Lisbon.  
"Around the block, around the block," Angela sang. "Hurry, don't stop. Hurry don't stop."  
"Quiet," he told her.  
"I'm just as nervous as you," she griped.  
Within ten minutes he was back. Pretending to have simply stretched his legs, he walked inside and pressed the elevator.  
"Evenin' Guv," said a man waiting at the elevator.  
Jane tipped an imaginary hat. The lift arrived with a ping.

Teresa let him in. She saw relief on his face and wondered whether she was just better at reading him, or he was more relaxed around her.  
"I think we have a bite," he said.

It wasn't until well-after dark, that they heard the tell-tale sound of a door. It was the fire-door closing.  
"Heads-up," she whispered.  
They crowded around the little screen, the rest of the place in darkness.  
"Ah ha! Darcy—" he gloated, pointing to the figure on the screen.  
"Shhh," Teresa warned.  
Darcy mooned-into view on the small camera that watched the entrance. She put her ear to the door; all they saw was the top of her head. Jane's leg jumped up and down like an engine. Teresa put her hand on his knee to still him.  
Darcy looked into the camera. They watched her puzzling it out.  
"She's found it," he breathed.  
Darcy's arm raised and they knew she was tracing the little white cable. Soon she had moved to the left and they watched her follow it to where it led into the floor. She tugged it twice and stopped.  
"Good thing we nailed it down," Jane whispered.  
"Get ready," Teresa said low.  
They saw Darcy glancing left and right, then down. She straightened, making a decision and jogged to the stairs.  
"We wait two minutes," Teresa said, relieved.

..xx..

With her pistol extended and a vest in-place, Teresa led and Jane followed. They converged on 1012. The false cable protruded from the ceiling, pointing to the room. Listening at the partially opened door, they could hear Darcy moving the table they'd placed earlier against the wall inside.  
Teresa looked over her shoulder and caught his eye. She nodded, raising her gun.  
Three. Two. One.  
She kicked the door wide and shouted, "Agent Darcy, stand still!"  
Jane tried to follow her, but her wake was too turbulent. The door swung-back and bashed his arm. He forced it away. Two loud pops sounded. He lurched into the room, orienting himself.  
Lisbon stood, her arm lowered. Beyond her Darcy was half-leaning against the wall, slumped to one side.  
"I had to," Teresa was saying. She pointed at a pistol on the floor.  
Jane's eyebrows lifted, "Unfortunate."  
She holstered her weapon, not bothering to reply. She tested Darcy's neck for a pulse; shook her head.  
Jane crossed to the window and opened the curtains. Harsh light from a garish sign illuminated the room. He fished-out his phone and flipped-it into camera mode.  
The shot he took showed Darcy as well as the message they had painted onto the wall to delay her:  
"What immortal hand or eye  
did frame _this_ fearful symmetry?  
One down little John.  
Come out and play.  
PJ"

"We gotta move!" Teresa said urgently. She flipped her phone open.  
"Walter, it's time," she hung up. "Come," she ordered.  
They took the stairs to the roof. Mere minutes later the sound of a helicopter breached the solitude.  
"Good old Walter," Jane laughed.


	10. Chapter 10

_Thanks to Lothlorien Aeterna for the constant support, also to the odd other guests and members who have posted a review. _

_My Internet has been off for hours and may go again – seems the unusual cold and snow in the Western Cape has affected power. If this is posted late, that would be the reason._

_Our heroes prepare to leave for,_

**Blue skies.**

"O n s ll div n efo e w o," Jane shouted to Teresa as they clambered off the helicopter.  
"What?" she yelled, holding her hair down with one hand.  
Jane frowned at the noise of the blades.  
When they were clear, he tried again, "One small diversion before we go."  
"Coffee sounds like a great idea," she grinned.  
He pointed, "Down there, I think."  
They took the staircase that opened onto the vast roof where they'd landed, down into the airport terminal.

"Do you mind?" He asked her, drawing the chair out, inviting her to sit.  
She took it saying, "What's the matter, afraid of keyboard cooties?"  
"Yes," he chirped. She eye-rolled and turned-to the machine.  
She poked around for a moment, opening a new tab on the browser. She tried the tricks that Walter had explain but none of those menus where available.  
"I dunno if this can get to our blog," she muttered.  
"At all, or securely?" He asked, leaning with both hands on the desk-edge to her left.  
Tick tack tack, click. She typed the address manually. There was a long pause as a page drew itself.  
"No route to host," said the screen.  
"At all," she said, glancing sideways.  
Jane made a phone sign with his hand, "Oh Walter honey, I so long for your dapper fingers," he teased. Teresa's smile flashed across her face. She slapped his phone-hand, taking her own out.  
"Walter?"  
"Hello Teresa, did the helicopter get there?"  
"It did, and just in time."  
"Well, I do own an entire helicopter company, you know."  
She giggled into the phone. Jane felt a streak of —

"Jealousy my darling?" asked Angela.  
"She's very comfortable around him."  
"But it's you she's actually with_._"  
"She has no choice."  
"There's always a choice."

"—anks Walter, I got it now." She had been following his instructions, typing and clicking.  
Jane snapped-back into the moment, "Lisbon, one moment?"  
"Just a sec," she said into the phone and looked at him.  
"Ask him how we can make a mistake, an innocent one."  
"You mean this," she tapped the keyboard.  
"Yes, I'd like to give John some way to trace us to this airport."  
"Gotcha. Walter, did you hear? U-huh. Okay," she continued typing.  
"Thanks, it's working. You too, bye."  
The blog was loading, quite slowly.  
"Any comments?" Jane was wobbling one leg, leaning sideways to peek.  
"Patience," she said, holding the scroll-bar down.  
"We stare down into your blind eye," Jane read the post she'd made yesterday.  
"Pithy," he said.  
"Here," she pulled the comments into view.  
"It was nice to talk to you Patrick, but I suspect the fragile Agent Lisbon posted that. I'll be all yours very soon, Teresa. What do they say in cyberspace? BRB LOL."  
"Ignore it," he said. "New post. New post!"  
She smiled as she prepared, "Okay, what should we say?"  
He stood, tucking his hands into his pockets. She waited.  
"Okay, try this. In what—"  
"Slow down!"  
The post eventually read, "In what distant deeps or skies waits the apple of your eye."  
"Catchy, what does it mean?" she asked.  
"You'll see."  
She swallowed a reflux of annoyance. The last two days had been unusual in many respects, but she'd most enjoyed how Jane had involved her, wanted her opinion. He had seemed less isolated somehow.  
"I won't accept that," she said evenly, her hands on the keys.

"You really can't help it, can you?" Angela scolded him, "You have to be a showman, at all costs."  
"What can I say?" he smiled at the ghost.  
"You can pay attention to this moment," she circled around. "You can invite her past the ropes, bring her into the ring."  
The revelation of simple truth was like a bolt of lightning.

"I don't think you should," he said to Teresa.  
"You— What?"  
"You should not accept it when I exclude you," he turned to face her, looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'll try harder."  
Teresa felt strange. Her trunk lid jerked.  
"Uh— Alright then," she had to look away from his hypnotic gaze.  
Jane explained, "When Angela and I— Long ago, we took a vacation.."  
"To South Africa, where we're going next?"  
"Yes. It's a beautiful country," he drew the picture with his entire body, hands sketching in the air.  
"—ergo distant deeps and skies," he finished.  
"How will John get _that_ — from that?" she flipped a finger between the screen and Jane's performance.  
"Oh, he won't. That's metaphor, keeps it fluid and wibbly-wobbly."  
"Really? Wibbly-wobbly?" her eyes laughed.  
He grinned, "The real clue is the mistake you, sorry, _we_ made on purpose when we logged-in."  
"I do get it Jane," she smiled, happy to have him working to include her.  
He bounced on his feet.  
"Shall we go? We have a private luxury jet waiting for us."  
Teresa logged-off and tried to clear the history. The airport browser was too locked-down and weird, she gave up.  
"Leave it," he dismissed the machine with a wave, offering the crook of his arm instead.  
She smiled, took it and they left.

..xx..

The team were gathered at the big table. LaRoche addressing.  
"A woman's body was found in New York, it was Agent Darcy."  
The news was almost expected.  
"I knew something was off," Grace said.  
Cho followed, "She left two days ago and sent us on a wild goose-chase."  
Wayne sat still, his almost feral temper radiating from his body.  
"How was she killed?" he asked coldly.  
Grace jumped in her skin. Her friend had been withdrawing, cutting himself off. She could now understand what Jane was: angry, afraid and frozen in time.  
"GSW, chest. A proficient shot," said LaRoche.  
"Do you think it was Lisbon?" asked Cho.  
LaRoche shrugged, "Forensics are working the scene."  
He took a seat, his large girth floating down to the level of the table.  
"However," he continued, "I think it's very likely. I am almost certain that Darcy was Red John's eyes."  
"Are there any others?" Wayne asked.  
LaRoche looked at him, "We don't know." Wayne smacked his fist on the table.  
"Are you one?" Cho straight-up asked him.  
The detective slitted his eyes and weighed his words.  
"I appreciate the direct question, Agent. To answer it, no. I am not."  
Grace expelled a half-guffaw, "Are we expected to believe that?" She instantly blushed, looking ashamed yet affronted. "Sorry, Sir. With all due respect."  
"No need Agent," said LaRoche, flicking his eyes to her. "We all know the stakes. You are right to suspect me."  
An awkward silence fell as they regarded one-another. LaRoche turning his tortoise-head to and fro. Rigsby frowning into the table. Cho staring at some fixed-point only he could see. Grace, trying to pull trust from the air and touching them all with her eyes, even while her jaw was set in a firm line, her nostrils flaring.  
"Well," LaRoche broke the stalemate. He pushed his chair back and drifted to his feet.  
"I have no conclusive evidence to clear my name. Until then, you are all to remain off this case."  
The others began to protest, he cut them off.  
"Enough. There are other cases to solve," he said harshly, then more softly, "Give it some time."

..xx..

Jane swapped their sim cards and numbers again. There was a delay while the jet was being inspected pre-flight. He had an extra phone, still in its plastic case. Teresa eyed it, querying him.  
"Think I'll call Brett on this one," he lifted it, pulling at the plastic.  
"Urgh. How in the seven hells does anyone get into these things?"  
Teresa offered her hand, "Gimme."  
She took it, produced a huge pen-knife and flipped a small blade out.  
"Where where you hiding _that_?" Jane exclaimed.  
She merely wriggled her eyebrows and winked. In a moment she had sliced the plastic away. She handed the phone to him.  
"It's nice to learn new things about you Lisbon," he said as he tinkered with the back of the phone.  
Soon he was calling Stiles, on speaker.

"Patrick, I thought you may call."  
"Brett, we are leaving the country, what have you learned?"  
"Straight to business, eh? Very well. Oh, hello Agent Lisbon!"  
Teresa produced a little smile, "Stiles."  
"You may not believe me, but I am glad Red John did not reach you in New York."  
Jane cut-in, "What do you know?"  
"I took your advice and I found a pattern. It seems there is another Church within my own," the man's voice almost sounded chagrined.  
"I had hoped to see a single name – a single person travelling to New York, but sadly, it was not to be."  
"What do you mean?" Teresa asked,  
"There were over a dozen Visualize members who made the journey, all within a few hours of your stunt. I also know one of you shot and killed Darcy."  
"How?"  
"As I have said before – friends in high places."  
"Are they really your friends Stiles, or Red John's?" Teresa suggested.  
There was a long pause, "A good point Agent, well placed."  
"Can you send that list of names to this phone?" Jane asked.  
"Indeed I can."  
"Brett— We have our differences, but — watch your back." Jane said.  
"I shall, and thank you. Good hunting." The line went dead.  
A few moments later the phone beeped, a text message. Jane opened it.  
"Almost twenty names," he said, closing it.  
Teresa beckoned, he handed the phone over.  
"It's a throw-away, right?" she asked, holding it open. Jane nodded.  
"Then I think I'll send this list to Grace."

"Ma'am?" one of the pilots approached them in the waiting lounge. "Your flight is ready to leave."  
"We'll be right over," she told the pilot.  
"Time to go," Jane observed.  
"Have we forgotten anything?" she asked, feeling tense on this new edge.  
"Meh."

Within an hour they were ensconced in the jet, surrounded by warmth and comfort.  
"I could get used to this," Teresa was saying, her feet up as she lay back.  
"I'll buy you one of these, if you want," said Jane, watching the night fly past the window.  
She looked at him, "How are you gonna—? Scratch that. I don't want to know. Just have it delivered and drop the keys off."  
Jane laughed. The jet moved. America fell away.

..xx..

"We need a plan," Grace was telling them. They were still at the big table.  
Cho shrugged, "What can we do?"  
"Watch the blog, for one thing," Grace said, annoyed.  
Wayne spoke-up, "That Visualize connection."  
"What about it?" Cho asked.  
"We should press harder," Wayne finished.  
"Jane did seem tight with that creep Stiles," Grace shuddered.  
"That's it!" Wayne stated, banging the table again. "We find Stiles and we find Lisbon."  
"It won't be easy," Cho.  
"Between the three of us? We can run interference and get through," Grace said with determination.  
"Just like football?" Cho asked, grunting.  
"Yep." she said with a big smile.  
"I'm in," said Wayne and Cho at the same time.  
Her phone beeped, she checked her messages.  
"Uh, guys."  
She passed the phone across to Wayne, "Looks like we have even more leads."  
The message read, "Visualize members – suspects tied to RJ?" It was followed by a list of names and signed, "L."

..xx..

"He has an army," Teresa said, looking through the list again.  
"Ehh, I don't know," he said from his reclined seat.  
"I'd assume every one of these names are his people."  
Jane sat up, adjusting the seat.  
"It's not possible for one man to mind-wash that many people."  
"You saw that NLP woman, what was her name?"  
Jane's palace supplied it instantly, "Lindsay."  
"Her." Teresa waved. "She was uncanny."  
"Hmm," Jane pondered it. Maybe John was just that good.  
"I still think he has a handful of dedicated drones. The rest will be in orbit, perhaps they think John will take Visualize. They've chosen sides."  
"Either way," Teresa observed, "we have a small army looking for us."  
"Not if Stiles fights back," Jane said quietly.  
"We can't call him from here," she said.  
"But we _can_ call Walter," he replied, pulling a phone out.  
"Don't put him in danger." her voice warned.  
Jane looked at her for a moment, "I won't."

"Jane?" Teresa listened to the call.  
"Yes, we're calling from on-high. Need you to get a message to Brett Stiles, the Chief Eyeball of Visualize."  
"The what?"  
"That cult I told you about," Teresa supplied.  
Walter groused, "You don't want a lot."  
Teresa said, "Walter, be careful. Don't let them see you."  
"Hey Teresa," he said, "all part of the service."  
"Take this seriously," Jane cut-in.  
"Fine. Fine, what message?"

..xx..

"Sir?" a secretary flagged Brett down. "There's a man here to see you."  
"There's always someone in this dimension who wants to see me," he said, strolling-on.  
"Uh— he is rather insistent, Sir."  
Brett sighed. The recent activity of Jane's had been draining. He'd been gathering forces and collecting material. Vent-vids and personal files were being copied and stashed in secure places. He did not need some random visit from what would be an adoring parishioner or some drooling fan.  
"Tell him to accept patience and observe the inner-eye," Stiles said to dismiss the interruption.  
"I can't do that," said the pesky man. Brett stopped to regard him.  
"It's you. You're the one with the message."  
The stranger smiled, tipping his head.  
"Well, you have my attention."  
"Jane says touch your toes and clap your hands."  
"He does, eh?"  
"Yes."  
"Is that all?"  
"One more thing. He says if you don't understand, you have already lost the war."  
He understood alright. Jane was sounding the alarm. It was time to clean house.

..xx..

"What the hell is going on here?" Wayne asked. They had arrived at Visualize to find a cordon of black-shirts blocking all access.  
Grace was arguing with one of them, "We're CBI, police. Let us in or we start arresting you!"  
The guards remained mute. Cho took her arm, pulling her away.  
"Give it up. We can't arrest all of them."  
She shook herself to calm down.  
"How are we going to get in?"  
"Look," Cho pointed.  
From the huge entrance, under the eerie eyeball, a row of people were exiting. The black-shirts turned their backs, one by one, in an insulting wave.  
The people leaving were looking around. Some seemed afraid, others resigned. The black-shirts continued to turn their backs, allowing them out. One man tried to break from the row and turn back. He was seized and shoved ahead. The whole scene played-out in utter silence.  
"What's that around their necks?" Wayne asked.  
As the first of the exiles, for so they seemed, passed the detectives, they could see the yellow signs that hung from them.  
"DNP," was written in strong black letters on each one.  
Cho grabbed a man to one side, tapped the sign, "What's that mean?"  
The man cringed, as if he'd been through some severe shock. His eyes were glazed, his face frozen.  
"Talk!" Cho threatened.  
"It's a — it means — Discontinuous Non Person." he said in a monotone.  
"Discon— what?" Wayne asked.  
The man looked at them without emotion, "I have been declared DNP by my Church."  
He looked at the group of exiles that were milling about nearby, "We all have."  
"Kicked out, eh?" said Wayne with a smile.  
"This is not helping us," Grace complained.  
Cho went to one of the guards and grabbed him by the shirt.  
"Get a message to Stiles, we are here with information about DNP members that he needs to know."  
The guard glared at him, but after a moment he nodded.  
"Good move," Wayne congratulated Cho, with a half-smile.  
The guard moved between the shirted crowd and out of sight.  
"Now we wait, I guess," said Grace, folding her arms.

Within fifteen minutes they were alone with Stiles.  
"Agents," he greeted them.  
He was looking tired, thought Grace. The last time she had seen him up-close he had been in jail, a caged lion. Now he looked like an angry one, fresh from a titanic battle.  
"You have something to say, because I know you made that DNP line up."  
Cho flashed a smile, shrugged, "It worked."  
"Indeed," said Stiles. "If you will get to the point, I'm rather busy."  
"We need what you have on Lisbon," Grace said, putting it all on the table.  
Stiles regarded the agents. He wasn't sure whether he should tell them anything, but something about throwing a curve at Jane appealed to him.  
"Very well," he said, sitting in his chair at the head of the long table. He invited them to take seats.  
"I know a few things, but you had better keep this to yourselves. Do you have passports?"


	11. Chapter 11

_Been down, not in the mood, for a few days. I have hacked the plot a few times and I have a kind-of-sort-of finale on the cards._

_This chapter is just me writing to get back into the flow. I hope to finish this little story this weekend._

**A long flight.**

"How do I get the photo I took from this," he asked, wiggling the phone, "into that?"  
Teresa fiddled with the laptop, and showed him. He attached the image of Darcy to an empty post and published it.  
"It's done," he said, with little satisfaction; it was a distasteful moment.  
Jane slumped back, "Ah, Lisbon," he looked dejected.  
"What's on your mind?"  
He toyed with the armrest, not answering. He looked vacant, lost.  
"Jane?" she prompted him.  
"I don't really have a plan," he said, stilling his hands and looking at her.  
"What did you expect?" she asked, "A script?"  
He clenched his hand into a fist, "We're gambling that John will follow us, that he will draw himself thin."  
She sat back, saying, "I'm feeling _we_ are losing our home advantage."  
"We'll all be thin, then," he sighed.  
"You know," he continued after a quiet pause, "we have to get him into the same space as us. We have to finish this somehow." He went silent again, his eyes seeing nothing.  
She wondered whether he was back inside his mind, working on the problem.

"How do I isolate him Angela?"  
"I don't know darling. Not yet."  
"We could go to that little place," he said.  
"The Restios, where we stayed ten years ago?"  
"Yes, it's remote enough."  
"And then?"  
"Let him know."  
"Why would he walk into a trap?"

"I just don't know," he'd said it aloud, back in the jet.  
Teresa glanced-up, "That makes two of us Jane, I'm trying to think it through."  
He smiled, knowing that her first-rate mind would not sit idle.  
She shared her thoughts, "We have disturbed his nest."  
"But has it been enough? What if Stiles missed him?"  
She continued, "We've clipped Darcy's wings."  
"And Lorelei? She could be back at work."  
Teresa scowled, "I suspect she's either dead or — worse."  
Jane nodded fatefully.  
"We have hurt his ability to see into the CBI, we have isolated him." she said.  
"And, so far, he's playing this pointless game," Jane said.  
"Yes," she confirmed, "we're ahead and he seems to be angry."  
Jane paused again. The sound of the jet was the only constant.  
Finally he said, "But what next?"  
Teresa didn't know what to say.

"I am going to need a lure," he told the ghost.  
"And you know who that will be," she replied, circling.  
The colours in the palace took on a red tinge. The circus-ring became a muddy broth of blood. As Angela walked, her feet pushed the thick mud, slowing her down.  
"This won't do," she said.  
The ghost waved her hand and the blood began to dry. The air shifted to an older hue. Now Jane sat in a sunset of rust. The ring was drying out, rust piled to the sides as she circled.  
"I trust you Patrick," she said.  
"Do you?"  
"Yes, you will not allow her to come to harm."  
"Is it not worth it to stop him?"  
"And then what?"  
"I will— End."  
"Then it's not worth it," she said loudly. "Be smarter."

He jerked back into the world. Teresa was lying in a curve on her seat. Her head was on the armrest, her eyes closed.  
"No," he thought, "I will not tempt John by using you." It was a promise, backed by his very life.

Where was the old Teresa, she asked herself? The jet throbbed under her cheek. The idea of killing Red John no longer seemed outrageous. Trying to capture him. Taking his arms down behind his back to cuff him. Touching him— It made her sick.  
The old Teresa would have been fighting Jane, looking for every chance to bring the monster to justice.  
Then Rigsby— Benjamin had not been abstract like Jane's daughter, she had held him; laughed with the others to see his little face.  
She sighed, trying to dismiss the conflict. Here I am, she thought, outside the law with Jane. With Jane and going straight to hell.

"Jane?" she turned to see him already watching her, smiling.  
"I'm afraid," she said softly.  
He made to speak, but she held her hand up.  
"I— What if," she stumbled. "What if I have the chance and I don't take the shot?"  
"I trust you," he replied.  
Her eyes pulsed, "To kill him?"  
"No," he leaned forward, his arms folded over his knees, "I trust you to be yourself. Whatever happens, will be the right thing."  
She couldn't reply.  
He shifted position, widening his feet to perch better, "If you take him down and arrest him, I'll—" he paused, "—help you."  
She blinked, wiped her eyes.  
"And what if I'm too slow? What if he kills you?" she asked.  
It was nearly impossible to surprise Jane. He thought in probabilities which meant there was always a chance of something going wrong; he expected failure.  
"How did I not see that coming?" he said, off-balance and puzzled.  
"You didn't think he may get you?" she asked.  
"No, that's always there," he said. "I never thought _you'd_ be—"  
"Afraid of losing you." she stated.  
"Yes."  
She smiled, "Jane, it's my job to protect you."  
"I— It's mine to protect _you_." he confessed.

"Told you so," Angela said, walking the ring of rust.  
"She surprised me," he still could not believe it.  
"Why can't you?" his reflection pushed, sharing his mind.  
He thought it over. Everything Lisbon had done since they'd first met was evidence. She fought him, she resisted. She tried to curb him but never to control. She never once shied-away from harm when he was in trouble.  
"Even when you left," Angela reminded him. "She called. She didn't sleep."  
"But— I'm—" he began.  
"A conman. Damaged. Filled with hate and longing for murder."  
"All that."  
She paused her walk, facing him on his bench, "You've changed."  
"But—"  
"No buts. If I say you've changed, then it's so." she walked-on.

She watched him zone-out again. His withdrawn expression suddenly irked. She sat-up and adopted his pose. When he came-to, she grinned to see him flinch.  
"I never surprise you Jane," she said, a little cocky, "but here it's happened twice in a few minutes."  
"You are a constant surprise my dear," he replied. "Sorry, I guess I—"  
"I get it, you visit your palace. Only I wish you wouldn't."  
He winced, "Why?"  
"I don't like it when you go away," she spoke the simple truth.  
He laughed nervously, rubbing his head, "There, you did it again."  
She turned serious again, "A minute ago you told me you'd help if I arrested him."  
"I did."  
"That's not like you."  
"I've changed Lisbon," he looked into her eyes, "You changed me."  
It was her turn to be surprised. She felt a current of emotions battering her trunk, but she dug her heels in, kept it closed.  
He saw her fighting something internal, private.  
"I know what it's like," he said.  
She gave him that dubious eyebrow-raised, what-are-on? look.  
He had to smile, "Internal conversations. Hard to control aren't they?"  
She nodded, still firmly pressing the trunk's lid down.  
"Changed how Jane?" she asked after a beat.  
"I'd rather show you," he said.  
"Uh—"  
"Watch what I do, less what I say," he finished, leaning back again.  
Could she dare trust him? She leaned-back, wondering what he'd meant.  
He said he'd help me arrest Red John. It had to mean something.  
"Can I ask you a personal question?" his voice broke her thoughts.  
"Can you?" she decided to parry that, it felt right. She heard him give a small laugh.  
"I can. Why don't you date?" he asked.  
"_I_ date," she defended, looking at the curved ceiling of the jet.  
"In over eight years, you've been out with Mashburn once," he accused.  
"How did you know?" Scratch that, she thought, he'd now.  
"That's not the point," he answered.  
"What is your point?" she said, a little harshly.  
He looked at her and saw her watching him, "Eight years, no relationships. That tells me you're damaged or waiting."  
She gasped.  
"Which is it Lisbon?"  
"You don't have the right to ask me that," she said, getting angry.  
Jane made a peace sign with his hands, "I didn't mean to upset you."  
"Then what?" she sighed, feeling hopeless. He was right, of course, she was waiting. The trunk was full of insane hopes and desires, and there they would stay.  
"I think you know." he said.  
Anger filled her. She sat upright.  
"You think I'm waiting for _you_!"  
He followed her, "I do."  
"Dream on pal."  
"Well," he paused, studying her, "I could be wrong."  
"Yeah, imagine that!"  
"The thing is—"  
"What thing, Jane?" her voice put quotes around the word. "You're a fine one to ask me about relationships!"  
He blinked, hiding the pain her words caused.  
"I'm sorry," she quickly said.  
He showed her he didn't mind with a small grin.  
"What's the thing?" she asked after a while.  
"I'm waiting too."  
Her mouth formed an, "Oh."  
His face said yes, crazy isn't it?  
She smiled, "Totally crazy," but her eyes betrayed hope.  
"From one damaged person to another," he said, "it's possible to wait too long."  
Feeling awkward, she withdrew into her seat. He felt the moment pass, he'd said it, it was out. He felt lighter — but that always ushered a greater weight.  
"Jane?" her voice came from the shadows.  
"Yes?"  
"You— You caught me off-guard. Just—"  
He waited.  
"—wait a little longer. Okay?"  
He felt dizzy, "I'm good at that."  
"Yeah, you sure are."

The co-pilot shook Jane's shoulder, "Wake up Sir, we are approaching the airport."  
Jane thanked him and took a moment to shrug-off sleep. He wondered how long he'd been out. Looking over at Lisbon, he was reluctant to wake her. She had curled into a ball that emitted little squeaks. He soaked-up the moment, committing it to memory. Her wing in his palace was now the largest room in there. Under the circus ring, down a helical staircase and into another world.  
He stood and then bent to touch her shoulder.  
"Wake up sleepy head," he said softly.  
She stretched and he held his breath.  
"Hey," she said, looking up at him in the pure innocence that lasts only seconds as sleep flees.  
He smiled down at her, wishing such moments could last forever.  
"We're there," he said, instead of what he wanted to say.

..xx..

They took a hire-car to their next secure location. Cape Town was cold and wet, it was winter, but the rain was brief and the skies were clearing. The drive was confusing, every road seemed to bend and dip and rise.  
"Where are we going again?" she asked, looking out of the windows at all the houses stacked in precarious steps up the steep slopes of the mountains.  
"Clifton beach," he replied.  
She grinned, "You can chase crabbies again Jane."  
"Or seagulls," he said.

The place was humble, compared to the expensive mansions that littered the place, seemingly scattered like rockfalls. It was set low, down from the road and hidden between trees. The beach was a glorious stretch of turbid water and white sand, visible from every part of the front.  
They unpacked and found themselves standing at the porch-doors just staring.  
"I actually slept," he said.  
"Me too."  
"Must be a record."  
She bumped him with her shoulder, "Time for food."

"We face the same problem here," Teresa said, laying her empty bowl aside. They had ordered out from a plastic menu that was stuck to the fridge.  
Jane took a last mouthful, prompting her with a look.  
"Here we are, how do we get John to come?"  
"Meh," he said, wiping his mouth and putting his spoon down.  
She arched her brows, "Really? Meh, is all you've got?"  
"I feel strangely unconnected to the problem."  
"But Jane—"  
"Look at where we are Lisbon!" he exclaimed, sweeping the view with his hand. "Let's just forget for a day."  
She felt she should be shocked, or at least puzzled by his attitude, but she was on similar lines. Their last talk, their first real talk, and the flight from America had left her feeling surreal.  
"Let's go for a walk on the beach," he said with sudden enthusiasm. He leaped-up and held his hand out. She gazed at it for a second.  
"Good plan," she said, taking it.

..xx..

Detective Bakeni of murder and robbery, Cape Town CID, was not happy that he had to trudge through the biting rain and cold to cross from his beaten-up car into the foreign Church. He had been called from his home where his gas-heater kept him company and his small television kept him busy.  
"Molo Detective," said Koos, one of his fledgling team members. He looked no happier than his Boss, but he put a brave face on.  
Bakeni greeted the boy and asked, "Why are we here?"  
"Moord." Murder, Koos used the Afrikaans word. He led his Boss into the Visualize Church, out of the cold.  
They followed the general bustle of people, tracking the tension upstairs until they came to the crime scene.  
Koos related the facts as they stood, "This man, Hilton van der Joost, was found by that woman," he pointed to a crying girl in an adjoining room.  
"And that?" Bakeni asked, looking at the red smiling face painted on the wall.  
Koos shrugged, "Wietie." It was slang for having no idea.  
"Detective?" A querulous voice from the side attracted attention.  
"Yes?" Bakeni asked. He turned to see Mtutu, his senior detective holding an evidence bag. It was unlike the stalwart man to be upset by death. God knows the things they had to see every day in the Cape Flats ganglands had hardened them all, but this kill was obscene, even to them.  
"What is it?" he asked Mtutu.  
"A letter, in blood." the man handed it over, trying not to touch it.

..xx..

"I have called you here because Red John has, it appears, killed again," LaRoche spoke to the team in his office.  
"Where?" Rigsby asked immediately.  
"South Africa."  
"What?" exclaimed Grace.  
LaRoche studied them, "You sound surprised, but you don't look it," he said.  
Cho glanced down.  
"Something you want to tell me?" asked the relentless detective.  
"Okay," Grace admitted, "we spoke to Stiles. We—"  
"Already know about Cape Town?" LaRoche finished.  
They all nodded quickly.  
"Well, that saves me time," he said, looking fierce.  
"Chief.."  
"No need Agent Cho, you are all on a plane within the hour. The FBI want you along on this."  
"What can we do in a foreign country?" Wayne asked.  
"I'll worry about liaising with the South African Police," he said, "You get on that plane,"  
They scurried out of the office.

..xx..

Jane was stoking the wood fire. Teresa sat on the couch and watched him. It had been an abstract day, they had stuck close to the house and to each other. Silence had spoken for their tentative emotions, banter had kept it all light and fun.  
She was happy and scared. All day she had wanted to say something about waiting, something about soon, but she didn't trust this spell they were under.  
"You missed a bit," she said, pointing.  
"Tah," he stabbed a log with the poker, drawing it closer to the flames.

"Have I really changed?" he asked Angela, while he faced the fire.  
"I've changed, ergo you've changed," she said, walking slowly. The ring held her feet in a clear path between the drifts of rust. He watched only that, as she went past him. He imagined that he could see through her feet, as if the entire circus was becoming translucent.  
"So quickly?" he continued doubting.  
"You know the answer to that," she said simply.  
"When did I let go of you?" he asked.  
"When you started waiting for her."  
"When was that?"  
Angela stopped and stepped out of the ring. He froze. This was not supposed to happen, it was impossible.  
"Angela.."  
"My darling, myself," she said, coming to stand before him. "Does it matter when?"  
"You—"  
"I am dead and gone, you are here and now."  
"Now," Jane intoned.

"Yes, now," Teresa was saying.  
"Eh?" he came back.  
"Come sit down, I mean," she said.  
"Oh. Right," he placed the poker and turned towards her. She patted the couch next to her.  
"We should talk," he said.  
"Blah blah blah," she joked. "When has that ever worked?"  
"I thought it went well on the jet," he said, crossing and flopping down.  
"It did, but we say so much more when we shut up."  
Jane kept his hands in his lap. The fire was still nascent, it had not yet warmed the room. The Cape night washed the windows in squalls, howling like a lonesome beast.  
Teresa looked to the side, trying to read his face. She gasped to see him doing the same.  
"Get anything?" she asked.  
He smiled, "I used to think I could see right through you."  
"I see you," she said boldly. "Hello.."  
He lifted a hand and pushed it across the space between them. She started the same motion. A phone rang.

"Who's?" he asked, the magic suddenly dispelled.  
"Mine," she answered it. "Walter?" she put it on speaker.  
"Hey you two, how do you like the little cabin?"  
"Pshaw!" Teresa mocked, "It's so small and dingy."  
Walter laughed, but there was a tension in the sound.  
"Something's wrong," Jane said.  
"Ever astute Jane," Walter said, his humour gone. "Red John just killed the Operator of the Cape Town Visualize branch."  
"What?" said Teresa, feeling a new kind of cold.


	12. Chapter 12

_Cold and wet here. I am sitting on my heater. Humans should have hair like the Baboons that haunt the mountain in my backyard, we are so fragile._

_Here's another chapter. The end is in sight._

**Lost and found.**

"_Red John just killed the Operator of the Cape Town Visualize branch."  
"What?" said Teresa..._

The clarion-call had brought cold into the room. They sat on the couch, watching the fire.  
"It's for the best," Jane said after a while, meaning the interruption. She felt hurt, but she pushed it into her trunk.  
"Whatever," she spoke with renewed cool.  
"Tea?" he offered.  
"Coffee."

Less than an hour later, Teresa got a call from Grace.  
"You sound tired," she greeted her team member.  
"So do you Boss, what's the news?"  
Teresa was in no mood, "Where are you guys?"  
"You know?"  
"About van der Joost, Visualize? Of course."  
"We're just clearing customs."  
"Wait for me there, We're coming right over."  
"Are you sure that's wise?" Jane asked as she hung-up.  
She paused, "I dunno."  
"I don't want you to show yourself," he argued.  
"You think he's watching?"  
"Always."  
Teresa shook herself, "I _need_ my team."  
"I know," he said, almost taking her hand. He walked to the window, the cold night battered from the other side.  
"Look, I'll be discreet. I need to catch-up with them. There might be important news."  
He looked back at her from the window.  
"I still don't want you to go."  
She felt a surge of pity and anger, "Look Jane, let's get this straight—"  
She crossed to the window, "I'm the agent. I'm—" she tapped her chest, "— the one with a gun. I protect _you_."  
"This I know," he said to the night.  
"So, get off your high-horse already. If John so much as looks at me funny, I'll blow him a new hole to laugh-out of."  
"What if he follows you back here?" he asked.  
"He's not God, Jane. He can't be everywhere!"  
"Think about it Teresa, he's changing the game. He defaulted a point."  
"So?"  
He whirled, taking her hands in a cold grip. She flinched.  
"So? He's working an angle. He's laying a trap!"  
She sighed, feeling the hope leave her body. Jane's tilted head said you know I'm right.  
"All this waiting," she said.  
"Will be worth it," he pulled her hands to his chest.  
"Fine," she said in a little grouchy voice.  
She reclaimed her hands; opened her phone again.  
"Boss?"  
"Grace, I'm not going to break cover."  
He listened to her side of the conversation.  
"It's too risky. We think Red John is trying to flush us out. Okay. Yes. Look, van Pelt, just work the case. No. I'll call again tomorrow. Yes. Good night."

Jane quickly dismantled their phones, again, and replaced the sim chips.  
Teresa said good night and left to choose a bedroom. He chose the couch and the slow-fire. It was a place where the past had almost left.  
Almost, but not yet.

..xx..

The hours of politics and formalities had granted the team only a couple for sleep. All too soon it was morning and they gathered for breakfast in their hotel near the airport.  
"Don't think much of this country," Cho said, devouring his toast.  
"That's not fair," said Grace, "It's always ugly around airports."  
"Nhu—" said Cho, chewing.  
"You gonna eat, Wayne?" she asked the morose agent.  
"Not in the mood," he said curtly. She felt another stab of loss.  
The FBI had left them to continue negotiations with the local cops. Their orders had been to cool-it at the hotel until further notice.  
Wayne's face twitched, he nodded upwards, "That might be for us."  
At the entrance to the restaurant, they saw a chocolate-coloured man in a dirty uniform, looking around. Grace stuck her hand in the air and waved. The man saw them and came over.  
"Good morning Agents, welcome to Cape Town," he had a melodic voice with a hint of real warmth. "I am Detective Bakeni," he said, with a little strut.  
Cho smiled, "Welcome Detective."  
They made the rounds of introduction and Bakeni joined them at the table.  
"Please, finish your food. The traffic now is bad," he pronounced it 'bed', they all smiled at the sound.  
"We should go anyway," said Wayne, not caring for the delay.  
"Soon," said Grace, trapping him by the hand. Bakeni noticed and smiled at her, his eyes dancing. Grace blushed. Wayne didn't notice.  
They fell into conversation, asking the man all kinds of cop questions. It was just after eight when he said, "Time to go."

..xx..

They took Forest drive, into Pinelands. Bakeni's old car was a tight fit, but Cho had called shotgun so he didn't mind.  
"This Church," Bakeni asked, "What kind of thing is it?"  
Cho grunted, "A cult."  
"Ah," said the detective.  
They turned-into the lavish entrance and parked to the side. Milling about the place were the typical members they'd come to recognize.  
"See those people?" Grace asked from the back-seat.  
"Them?" Bakeni said, looking closer.  
"Drones," said Cho.  
"This means?"  
Grace explained, "They rely on their — what do you call them? Their commanders — to give them orders. Like bees or ants."  
"Like police," Bakeni smiled.  
"Well—" Grace stumbled.  
"No," said Cho, opening the door, "Not like police."

At the building's entrance they spotted a feeb.  
"Heads up," said Wayne.  
"Agent Thomas," a young man greeted them, holding his hand out.  
Bakeni took it and performed a complex handshake that left the Agent looking puzzled. Cho choked-down a guffaw. The Detective hadn't hassled any of them with that, it must have been a hazing. He might get to like the little detective after all.  
"Ah. Right, thanks," Thomas was saying, looking at his hand.  
"What's the deal?" Wayne asked, cutting through all the subtext.  
Thomas parked his hand and said, "The local murder and robbery squad are lead. I am here to make sure you don't forget that."  
Bakeni spoke, "We welcome the help. Please come and see." He walked into the building.  
"Creepy bloody eyeball," Wayne muttered, looking up as they followed.

..xx..

They took their time getting used-to the many new facets of the scene. The air-pressure, the climate, the way people spoke. All were foreign. The only thing that made them feel at home, ironically, were the drones and the black-shirts that variously sulked and impeded.  
"Feels like old times," said Cho.  
"Yeah," Grace agreed.  
"I don't like it," said Wayne.  
The body had been bagged and removed, but the face was still there. He had been gripped by it, until Grace pulled him away.  
"Don't bottle it up Wayne," she said.  
"Who was the woman that found the body?" Cho asked Bakeni.  
"I will show you, we have her waiting."  
"You two," Cho told Grace and her motionless charge, "walk the place, get a feel. Tell me who this fan der Jewst was."  
He quickly followed Bakeni out of the room.  
"What is the matter with the tall one?" Bakeni asked him when they were out of earshot.  
"Red John, the man you are looking for, killed his family a few weeks ago."  
"Ndicela uxolo", Bakeni clicked under his breath. "I am sorry."

"Big place," Grace observed. They walked along a corridor that had a vaulted ceiling.  
Wayne said nothing. She touched his arm, "Snap out of it Wayne," she said.  
He grunted, pulling away.  
She said, "Jane manages it somehow," and regretted it.  
"I'm not him," he said coldly.  
"Well, at least you still have a voice," she retorted.  
They walked-on a bit, passing closed doors.  
"Okay, forgive me Grace. I'll try harder."  
As they came to an intersection with another corridor, Wayne volunteered to go right, she took left. He gave her a small smile, releasing her to concentrate on the job.  
More closed doors, locked too, passed her as she reached another choice of turns.  
"This place is a maze," she muttered.  
"It's not so bad when you get used to it," said an oddly familiar voice from behind her.  
She turned to look.  
"Brett Partridge at your service Agent," he extended his hand but she could not leave his face. Where had she seen him? Then it hit her. The ghoul-guy!  
"Yes, that's right," he said, still with the hand. "We have met a few times, and on Red John cases."  
Something about him had always made her nervous. His grin was skull-wide and skin-deep. She took his hand, a short shake, just to make him drop it.  
"I remember you," she said on automatic.  
They fell into a walk.  
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "The FBI didn't tell us."  
"I didn't get the luxury seats on the plane," he joked.  
"Still, I'm sure I saw everyone who was—"  
Partridge stopped at a door and tried the handle, cutting her off.  
"Hey this one's open," he said as he pushed it inward and stepped inside.  
She followed, her senses ramping-up to alert.  
She was too slow — not watching the man, but the room. She felt a sharp prick in her arm and the world fell away.

"Have you seen Grace?" Wayne asked Cho.  
"No, she was with you."  
"Well, she's not anymore," the worry made his face droop.  
"Call her," said Cho, starting to feel uneasy.  
"Tried that. Voice mail."  
"Shi—"  
"What is wrong?" Bakeni came into the room.  
"Grace. Van Pelt, is missing."  
"I will call my team," said the detective, slapping his uniform, seeking his ancient phone.

"Nothing?" Bakeni was asking Mtutu.  
"Hayi Boss."  
"You've been around the back?" Cho cut-in. The man nodded.  
"She _must_ be in the building," Wayne said to no one.  
"How many men can you get?" Cho asked Bakeni.  
"Not many," he answered, "but all I can will be here."  
"We need to seal the driveway and the road," said Wayne.  
"Ewe," yes, said Bakeni.

..xx..

"What?" Teresa exploded into her cell. Jane sat upright, poised on the edge of the couch. She had called Grace's number and then Cho's.  
She glanced at Jane, "Grace is missing."  
His world stopped. She spoke rapidly to Cho, while Jane waited, teetering on the brink of this latest move in the game.

"He's turned it around," he was in the ring.  
"Flipped it over and over and over." sang the ghost.  
"I have to leave," he told Angela. She resumed circling, her legs below the knees no longer visible.  
"I fear you do, do, do," she replied, her voice echoing.  
"He'll take her too. I can't stop him!"  
"Run, rabbit. Run," moaned the ghost. "Run run run run."

Teresa was waiting for him as he came out.  
"Please, don't leave. I need you," she said, her eyes large, her mouth set. She had watched his struggle with his inner self. No matter how close they had come, she could see him retreating. He didn't reply.  
She swore and left the couch. He didn't notice.

"She won't let me," he continued.  
"Start a fight," commanded the ghost.  
"But I don't want to hurt her, not further."  
"Hurt or dead hurt or dead hurt or dead," the ghost sang.

He whirled back, but Teresa wasn't there. A noise from the hallway told him she had gone to her room. He thanked the stars for small favours. Quickly, he crossed to the table where they had dumped their gear. He slung the laptop over his shoulder, while his hands sought paper.  
"Jane?" she called from the room.  
"Yeah?" he said, finding a pen.  
"Please don't run. We are gonna look for Grace. Give me a minute to change."  
His hands shook as he tried to write.  
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, lying.  
Teresa sat on her bed. She knew what was happening. Go out there, she shouted at herself. No, leave it alone. The trunk lid spasmed under her weight. It was his decision, his to — What the hell am I doing? She sprang to her feet.  
"Jane!" she rushed into the kitchen.  
He was gone.

"Teresa," he had used her first name.  
"No time. I can't risk you. Find Grace, forget about me — PJ"  
"Son of a bitch," she said bitterly, feeling tears.

He had left in the nick of time. As he raced up the steep pathway to the parking space above, he saw her enter the kitchen. He ignored the wailing siren in his mind that told him he was doing a bad thing. He reached the hire-car, fumbling the keys a moment. Below, he heard the door open and slam shut.  
"Jane! I'm not kidding!"  
He threw himself into the car and started it, backing-out without closing the door. It struck a post and bent horribly. The car bounced a gutter and fell into the narrow street, he forced the door closed; it barely fit. As he sped-off, he saw her appear behind him. He put his foot down, appreciating the ice-cold air that flooded through the damaged door.

He drove, not knowing the roads. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to hug the coast-line. He stopped at a gas station for a break. Inside, he used the laptop and its cellular connection to get to the blog. As it loaded, he paid for tea and a muffin.  
John had flipped the game. He had leverage now.  
The tea tasted pale and thin, the muffin stayed on its plate, a tumour.  
"I accept defeat." Jane posted, "Me, alone. Where?"  
He tried another sip, feeling eyes on his back. How long? There was a beep, John had posted.  
"That little BB."  
Jane knew what he meant. Somehow John had learned of the Bed and Breakfast.

"He asked your dead Angela," Angela said. "Again and again."  
"Stop it! Just stop this madness," he begged the ghost.  
"Madness sadness," she looped.

He slammed the laptop shut and left the dirty restaurant. If he worked quickly, he could get what he needed and reach the little village by morning.  
Outside, a taxi as they were known here, was loading a bunch of people. He shouted and ran across to join. A small sea of dark faces smiled at him, inviting him in.  
"Thanks," he said as he squeezed between two men wearing painters overalls.  
The taxi sped-off, these things only went in one direction, and he did too.

..xx..

It was night already, Teresa had caught her own taxi and joined the team in Pinetown. They all sat on the steps, oblivious to the rain that came and went.  
The door-to-door search was still under-way, their progress hampered by obstinate drones and guards. She had tried to get Stiles to intercede, but the time-lag was too great, or he wasn't interested, because he had not returned her calls.  
"It's my shift," she said tiredly, climbing to her feet.  
Cho caught her at the entrance, he shook his head.  
"Take it from the back-quarter boss, it's all that's left."  
"Rigsby?"  
"Still going." She nodded, and headed into the belly of the beast.

By sunrise, they were all exhausted. Even Bakeni's team, Koos and Mtutu had started to mutter that there was no place left to look.  
The two teams sat dejectedly on the same stairs.  
"I'll find coffee," Koos said, staggering up and leaving.  
"We must have missed something!" Wayne slammed a fist into his knee.  
Teresa shook her head, wondering if her neck would wear-out from all the use.  
"Take us back to where you last saw her," Cho said.  
"Right," Wayne stood and they all moved.  
He led them along the vaulted corridor, to the split in the flow. They turned left, tracing her steps. The doors that had been shut now all stood open. Left, right, left like dark, bleak eyes accusing them.  
Teresa paused, she'd had a thought.  
"Wait," she said, a slight twinkle in her eye. "I might have a plan."

All the cops withdrew to their cars. Bakeni spoke with a Visualize drone and left.  
"He is running inside," he reported to Teresa on his phone.  
"Fine, be sure to make it look like you're leaving," she replied.  
Within the eyeball, and she smiled to recall Jane's name for it, they heard a busy tone of purpose as the drones began to speak. While the cops had intruded, they'd all been creepy-quiet.  
"Something's happening," said Wayne quietly. They hid in a dark room, in the same corridor.  
"Shh," said Teresa.  
"You see anything," she asked Cho from her cell.  
"Still the same," he replied, "No one here. Wait—"  
They heard a door burst-open; Cho hollering.  
"Go!" shouted Teresa. Wayne almost knocked her over as he ran for the door.  
Cho was aiming, his weapon trained-on something beyond the turn in the corridor ahead.  
"Let her go and put your hands up."  
"—an't do that Agent."  
Wayne was the first to reach Cho, he had his own weapon out and trained.  
"Do it or I will put you down! So help me.." he shouted, lunging out of sight. Cho quickly followed.  
Teresa hit the corner, hugging the wall, her pistol extended down. She peeked around the edge. Grace was being held, limp, before a man who was backing-away down the corridor. She quickly joined her team.  
"Don't come closer," the man was saying. He shifted his hand to show a syringe.  
She cut Wayne's shout off, "Partridge! What are you doing?"  
"Who?" came Cho.  
"He's with forensics in Sacramento," she told them.  
"That's what you think," shouted the man, "but I'm really Red John!"  
"Bullshit," said Wayne as he fired.  
"No!" screamed Teresa, seeing yet another lead fall dead.

..xx..

"That was a good shot," Bakeni observed. He was patting the man's pockets. Wayne and Cho had carried the unconscious Grace to the front lawn.  
"Yeah, great," said Teresa, all her zest gone.  
Bakeni looked at her with soulful eyes, "You are sad?"  
She smiled at him, "Yes, for many reasons."  
"I know the feeling," he said.  
She thanked him and departed. Where is Jane?  
On the lawn she was in time to see an ambulance moving away, lights flashing. Cho saw her and jogged over.  
"Rigsby's with her," he reported.  
"Good. Cho, do you have a laptop with Internet?"  
"Back at the hotel."  
She could not hide her frustration, "I really need to get to it."  
"The blog?" Cho asked, on-target as always.  
"Yeah, I have to find him."  
Cho didn't show that he knew his Boss could only mean Jane, not Red John or anyone else. He glanced around and spotted Koos.  
"Let's go," he said.

Koos dropped them off at the airport hotel. Teresa could not get the laptop open fast enough.  
"Ugh, for crying out loud," she complained as she hit the keys. "All these passwords."  
It took as long as a cup of coffee, or pumpkin-powder as he'd heard Bakeni call it, for her to get into the encrypted web site.  
He put the coffee down but his Boss didn't move her hands from the keyboard.  
"Cho," she said, her voice was despair. She flicked her eyes to the screen.  
He leaned over and read Jane's last post.  
"Me alone. Not good."  
Teresa wiped her eyes, trying to hide her panic from him.  
"We have to find him."  
"We will."  
"Get LaRoche on the line," she said, whipping her cell out.  
"Bakeni?" Good, listen we need your help again," she spoke into the receiver.


	13. Chapter 13

_Thanks for the timeous review, Little-Firestarter83. And please stop reading my mind — you some sort of Mentalist? :-P_

_Okay, pressing-on, while my fingers can still move. It's short, but not sweet._

**Odd blood.**

"Boss, search Jane's files, he kept disks too," she was saying into a very broken line.  
"What? Oh, they're all near his desk. Eh? Yes, toss his couch too." She disconnected.  
"LaRoche know what he's looking for?" Cho asked.  
"All we have to go on is little BB," she complained.  
They were working from Teresa's room, booked recently. Wayne was sitting on the couch, a pained look on his face.  
"She'll be fine," Teresa said to him, peeking underneath Cho's arm.  
"Yeah," he muttered.  
"The doctor gave her an all-clear, don't worry," she assured him.  
"Hey," said Wayne, standing up as if lightning had struck.  
"What?" she said, catching the vibe.  
"That creep, Partridge — he have a phone?"  
Cho blinked twice and flew into action.

They located the cell phone, Bakeni sent it over with Mtutu. The sombre young man also brought a strange looking box and set it on the small table.  
"That a tracer?" asked Wayne, dubious.  
"No," said Mtutu. He unpacked the phone from its evidence bag and plugged a wire in.  
"It will clone the memory and search the GPS," he supplied as he opened the box.  
They watched him work. Teresa felt her nerves fraying as the machine bleeped and stuttered.  
"Can't it go faster," Wayne grunted.  
"You have software?" Mtutu asked, looking at the laptop. Cho shook his head.  
"Then this is faster," the man observed, turning back to the green screen.  
"Here—" he turned the box to face them. They saw a confusing array of light green alpha-numerics. Teresa looked at Mtutu.  
"You have maps?"  
Yes, she grinned, opening a browser.

While the others plotted the points onto a map, she took a call from her Boss.  
"Lisbon here, what've you got?"  
"We have a room full of techs and cops going through all Jane's files."  
"Have you found anything?" she repeated, trying to suppress an edge of dread.  
"Perhaps," LaRoche spoke, his voice crackling long-distance.  
Teresa dug her nails into her palm, waiting, "We looked-back ten years. There's some evidence that he and his wife took a vacation in South Africa. We—"  
The line went dead, static popped, it came back, "—reakfast in Bet—"  
The others heard her swear, it was startling because she never did that. Wayne looked over to her, "Boss?" She shushed him with a glare.  
"LaRoche? Chief?"  
"-epeat. Bed and—" another hiss. She strained to listen. It must be bed and breakfast, that much was clear.  
"In Betty's Bay," the line cleared.  
"Thanks Chief," she said, snapping her phone shut.  
In the same motion she repeated his words aloud. Cho tapped keywords into the laptop. She came over to see the results.  
"I know this place," Mtutu said. They all looked at him. He knocked Wayne's hand away from the touch-pad and dragged the map to the south and east.  
He zoomed-in, "There."  
"How many bed and breakfast places could there be?" Cho asked.  
Mtutu shrugged, "No imali for holiday." Imali must mean money.  
Teresa felt her legs give way. She made it to the small couch.  
"When can we leave?" she asked, leaning her head between her knees.  
Cho checked the map, "It's a two-hour drive along a road that warns of rock-falls."  
"And," said Mtutu, "it is winter now — bad weather."  
"I don't care!" she said loudly.  
"Boss," Wayne said, coming to her side, "we all want to find him, to end this."  
"Better we leave early in the morning," Mtutu spoke with experience.  
She waited until she could breathe, not comfortable with her team seeing her raw nerves on display.  
"What did the cell phone reveal?" she distracted them.  
"Um— Wayne pulled the laptop over. Partridge never went close to Betty's Bay."  
"Where did he go?"  
They fell-into conversation about the possible leads that were unspooling. As Mtutu left for the night, she stopped him.  
"Thank you for your help," she kept an even gaze into his soft eyes.  
"Ndiyabulela," he replied, it's a pleasure. He promised to see them at four the next morning, in a larger vehicle.

She tried to sleep. It was crazy, but she could feel his absence. For almost a month she had been within metres of him. Through it all, beyond her understanding, she had felt them growing closer. It can't have been an act, she thought. Could it?  
Upset now, she tried one of his numbers again. It failed.  
Where are you Jane? Why didn't you trust me?  
She knew part of the answer — he was protecting her. It was stupid and gallant. It was also deeply insulting to her — as a professional. As a lov— Whoah, girl. She blinked. The trunk shuddered. Keep it cold, keep it down.  
She eventually fell asleep. It seemed like her eyes closed as her alarm sounded.

..xx..

Jane had had a busy day. Using every ounce of his skills, he had moved through the underworld. Khayelitsha, the hurly-burly location sprawled in the shadow of the airport, housing a million souls, had led him north into the flats. He could feel the shift in the criminal atmosphere. Dotted amongst ordinary poor households, some in shameful states, were outposts of thugs. Stone killers and drug lords.  
He was in his element.  
He knew that the cash he carried, and his clothing, would mark him as a target, so he moved with the confidence of a criminal. This much he had learned from a few stints in prison. If you kept a cool-head and kept them off-balance, you could mould them like putty.  
He was been tested and passed-through the ranks. Finally, he met the Sangoma.

"So, white man, you are seeking Muti?" the voice conveyed a deliberate menace.  
He knew this act well, it was the same one he'd performed as a child. The last thing to do was to show he knew this, so he assumed an awed pose.  
"I must kill a man," he confessed.  
"Ah, this is serious magic," came the heavy voice. "Tell me. Why should I anger my ancestors for you?"  
He knew that mere money was not the question, "I seek power."  
The Sangoma shifted, lowering his face into a slither of light that penetrated his dark shack. Jane watched it toy with chicken bones — that or baby's — strung from the tin roof by fish gut.  
"Why should I give you power?" Powah, it sounded, loosing the final r.  
"Because I will take yours," Jane motioned with his hand and a silver coin appeared in his fingers. He began to flip it in the light.  
He continued, "Power is mine to give. And take. And—" he measured his voice, "—give. And take."  
The Sangoma closed his eyes and chuckled.  
"You are magic man, Sangoma, too?"  
Jane smiled, "In my land, none is better." he eclipsed the coin.  
"Good," came the voice, now hidden in the shadow again. "But there is one better, no?"  
Jane nodded.  
"I will grant you power, magician — but you will owe me."  
"I accept," said Jane, beyond caring.

It had taken over five hours for him to describe, await and then pay-for the poisons he wanted. He didn't know what that thick-green stuff had been, the one John had used to kill Rebecca, but he now had something of equal potency.  
The Sangoma had assured him it would work, but Jane had insisted on a test. To his horror, they'd brought a person into the room, bound and gagged. He had declined, asking for a pig instead. Somehow, a pig was worth more than a human in this dark world of spirits and ignorance, but they had found one.  
It had died within a minute. He timed it.

..xx..

The road to Betty's Bay was circuitous. He drove into mountains lit by the setting-sun. The ground fell-away to his right, into the sea, but he had the left-side of the road. Still, it put him closer to the falling-rocks, so the signs had warned.  
It was breathtakingly beautiful. All around him the mountains, clad in Fynbos, ran directly, but for the ribbon of the road, into the sea. It made no impression on him.

On entering the small village, which was more of a long, thin one, spread along the main road following the sea, he made sure to gather other cars as cover. In a small group, he sped into a break from the pure landscape. An ugly shopping centre passed on his right; houses cluttered the slopes to his left. He recalled that the B&B was right, to the south, on a prominence that must have been ocean-floor in the recent past. Well, recent in the scheme of this place which tolerated humans as a mere infection that a million more years wouldn't notice.  
He did not turn right.  
A little further ahead, he noticed a battered sign advertising another overnight stop. It was left, towards the looming mountain, and up a steep driveway. He took it.

The wind picked-up as he parked under thick trees. He felt a squall of rain, it chilled him as he dug in the trunk. The place was dark and there were no other cars in the small lot. He pulled his bag out and plodded to the front door, the soil and sand crunching under his feet.  
It took ten minutes of ringing the bell before a light came on. He could hear the owner, he assumed, cussing as he shuffled toward the door.  
There was a pause as he was observed through the peep-hole. The door was jerked open, it caught halfway and had to be tugged again.  
"Yeah?" came the rude voice. Jane was met with a strong draft of marijuana.  
Blinking it off, he said, "Room for a night?"  
The man's red eyes roamed him for a while, and then he moved aside.  
"Thanks ever so much!" Jane said brightly, entering.

"So it'll be a hundred and fif— two hundred bucks for the room," the man had finally opened his lock-box and penned a small invoice.  
Jane took the opportunity of the closeness and the light to flip his coin between his fingers.  
"Two hundred. One hundred. Feel it? That's cash money," he started a reassuring circle of rhyme.  
"Hundred. One hun—" It was no challenge at all. The pot-addled proprietor was under within seconds.  
Jane felt a moment of guilt about what he'd make this poor oaf do later; then he recalled Teresa's face as he'd sped away; leaving her. He recalled what he was doing, where he stood.  
Nowhere good, he thought. His ghost agreed.

He had the man, who's name he learned was Johan, move the furniture out of the main lounge on the same floor. They stacked it outside, in the rain, heedless.  
While Johan heaved a heavy couch into place, Jane set the lighting. Another couch and a small table were added, spot-lit from above.  
Then he strapped-on elbow-length latex gloves and began to cut-into the second pig he had bought.

"Two pigs in one day, Kalu, Kalay. What would she say?"  
He dismissed the ghost. The ring was turning, rotating. He fled, it shrank and closed with a pop.  
"—nd this little piggy went astray," her spectral words reverberated.

Back! The noxious stench and the bright red blood barely affected him. I am beyond reach mum, he began to hum.  
"Sies man!" said Johan, staring in rapture at the carcass.  
Jane reinforced his state, flickering his fingers before the man's eyes. Light reflected in sheens off his wet, red digits.  
He had Johan hold the bowl as he teetered on a stool. He drew that wretched face, huge, against the wall behind the couch, making only one change. X's for eyes replaced the happy-twisted commas that John used.  
Somewhere in the gristly artwork, he returned to the palace.

The ghost was gone, a dressing-gown circled the ring in a parody of animation.  
"Angela?" he queried.  
The entire place was dark, only an ethereal rust-tinged stain lit the tent.  
"Is that you my love," she asked, without a face.  
He pulled the plug.

The scene was set. He would mix the poisons next, but there was one thing to do first.  
"Johan," he attracted the man's attention with the coin.  
"Do you know the Restios? A B&B like this one?"  
"Yes," came the flat-line reply.  
"Good. I want you to go there now and take a message to my friend."  
It would take Johan over an hour to walk, stoned and hypnotized in the dark, to the Restios. Jane only needed a faction of that. He half-shut the front door behind his zombie. The wind worked the frame.

The first poison he mixed was a clear liquid. He left a dozen tea-bags soaking in it, hanging from their strings. The next was the thick skin-death. He had to mash a tough pulp, just as the Sangoma had demonstrated. He worked very carefully, glad that he'd found the skin-tight gloves.  
Once the goo was pulped, he added some milk, he didn't think it mattered, but he didn't want to divert from the recipe. Then he began to mix it into the pig's guts.  
It was nasty work. He kept rolling the glistening intestines between his fingers, one sausage after another, coating them all in death.

"The blood too, the blood three," Angela sang in his head.  
"More blood for you, more blood for meeeeeee."  
He tried to ignore her vapourish voice.

It was done. He packed the equipment away and set a tea-tray; checked his cell-phone for the time. It was perched to keep it clean; he'd over-run his estimated time. With a prickle running down his spine, he sped-up.  
Kettle, boiling. Tea cups? He left baleful blood in his path across the kitchen. Not knowing how much time he had left was making him rush.  
He stood still, listening to the sounds outside. All he could hear was the increasingly violent wind, now ramming the half-open door. Gusts of air blew ice into the room.  
He lifted the guts from the bowl and began to cover his arms in entrails. If the mixture touched his skin, he knew, it would be over.

He didn't care. All of this felt like a final act, like the curtains closing.  
The blood he had kept aside was poured down his shirt and he artfully dripped it, a Pollock-swathe, across the tiled floor, to the couch. He sat down and waited.

"Did I get it all right, Angela?" he asked the walking gown.  
"Your best yet," she said, oddly sane.  
"I forgot nothing?"  
"Only your life my darling — only your life."  
"That's all by the way now," he reflected.  
"All by the way, gone away, led astray, 'nother day," she bled out the poetry while he sat, one eye on the door.  
"Goodbye Lisbon. Teresa. My love. I'm sorry."  
"Sorry as the night is long, longer than the day," sang Angela.


	14. Chapter 14

_Been a marathon day for me, hope it's been worth it. This one is the crescendo, following it will come harmony before the record ends._

_If I have the energy, I'll do some more tomorrow. Right now it's,_

**Tea time for Mr. Red.**

Time is slippy. He fingered the guts in the metal bowl on his lap. Was it as slippy as these? Was it also wet and organic?  
Angela sang snatches of scat in and out of his mind. She moved around the room he haunted; now near, now far — a nauseous stereo spirit.  
He stirred the intestines; his ring become rust by liquids, bile and poison.

"Not dead yet," said the ghost. Even her gown was fading, or was it falling open, slipping-off her imaginary body while she dissolved?  
"No," Jane replied, "Not dead yet."

Lighting strobed the outside. It was soft lightning, like modern art, unexpected and common. It had no heat, the entire sky simply glowed — the clouds taking photographs.  
Perhaps there was a shadow in the door. Perhaps not. Jane felt his head nodding. A staccato reel of time played rapidly. Flash, shadow, flash.  
"Hello Patrick," it said.

"Ah," Jane said without sound. He tried to lift his arm, to invite the other chair. He got it on the second attempt.  
He forced his eyes to open, the light from above was— just like the old days of the stage. He squinted, managed to lift his hand to block it.  
Through his fingers he saw the masked-man take the other seat.  
"Some tea?" he offered, dropping his arm, limply, to his lap. The metal bowl began to spill. With a plump thud, something dead hit the floor.  
John didn't move.  
"Oh please," said Patrick more loudly, "have some tea."  
John leaned forward.  
"It's a special occ— occasion," Patrick tried to wake-up. "You 'nd I."  
John spoke, "It has been a long time coming."  
"Yes!" Patrick cried, seeming proud. "A long time." He did a small wave, from his knee.  
"What else is special about this?" John asked him with that reedy voice that sounded like skeletal nails drawn across teeth

Jane jerked, one side of his body slipped out of phase with the other.  
"Wha 'happened to your voice. I've always wanted to know."  
"Bad acid," John said, fell.  
"'kay," Patrick nodded, his head like a balloon – not tethered too well.  
John repeated his question, "What else is special?"  
Patrick smiled. He lunged for his pocket, his hand slapping his chest like a wet fish. He withdrew a small bottle, it dripped blood.  
"What is that?"  
"This—" he pried it open, his hands shaking, "— is poison." He looked into John's mask, not masking his shame.  
"You—" John roared, moving to his feet.  
"Sit, sit," Patrick waved him down. The bottle of white pills fell to the floor. It bounced.  
John remained poised, half up.

"Half down. Half up. Has he, has he – had enough?"  
The ring turned, the gown hung in the rust. A crackle of a vinyl record sounded, the groove was choking in dirt. The tent grew dimmer.  
"Ring a ring a.."

"I did," Patrick said softly. He grinned, his face failed.  
"Like it?" He lurched his head at the wall behind him.  
John resumed his seat; the very edge.  
"It angers me."  
"Well?" Patrick made a what-can-one-do face.  
"Will you have a last cup of tea with me?" he stammered.  
"Why?"  
He shrugged, "I like tea. There was tea out the night you— took my family."  
"That's right. I took them. Do you know where to?"  
"Shortly," he said rallying. "I'll know shortly."  
"I guarantee it," said the menacing man.  
Patrick made a visible effort to look into his face. He made a grabbing-motion with his hand, "The mask—"  
"Curious to the end, my lamb," the monster chuckled. He swiped the hideous excrescence off in a fluid motion.  
"I see you," said Patrick softly.  
"What do you see?"  
"Meh," he shrugged it off.  
"Not what you expected?"  
"A little," Patrick admitted. Suddenly his arm jerked again. His eyes looked at it like it was a traitor.  
"So dark in here," he murmured into his shoulder.

John reached for the kettle; poured hot water into both cups. Hypnotized, Patrick watched him, his head moving to follow the action. John dropped a tea-bag into each. He sat back.  
"I had hoped you would come to this end," he said.  
"I— started here."  
John smiled. His plain face wrinkled pleasantly. His dead eyes did not shine.  
"Do you think I will leave your love alone?" he said, as he reached towards the tray again. His gloved hand moved the silver spoon around.

"Around and around and around and around and ar—" he said to himself.  
"Where's Angela?" had he said it aloud?

"Angela is not here anymore," John said. He tapped the spoon on the cup. It made a twinkling sound, clear despite the storm without.  
"Oh yes," Patrick said distantly, he caught his head as it fell.  
"Have some tea, Patrick," Red John said, pushing a cup over.  
After two doomed swipes towards the tray, Patrick gave up.  
"I insist," said the plain man.  
"Thought your hair would be red," said Patrick.  
"My hair?" he said, amused. "Usually it's the eyes."  
"That too."  
John stood, the light dimmed. It rayed-off his outline like the sun behind a hawk. He bent, lifted a cup and pushed it into Patrick's face.  
"Th— thanks," he said, taking it. His hand shook violently; tea spilled to all sides.  
John returned to his seat, he took the other cup.  
"Drink Patrick," he said, holding the cup shy of his lips.  
"Heh heh," Patrick giggled, "Many a slip 'twixt the—"  
"Drink." It was a cold command. All the force of a Khan or a Caesar was driven into the word. Patrick took a shaky sip.  
"Hmm. Good," he smiled, spilling some from his dry lips.  
John regarded him for a moment and then took a sip.  
"Yes, it is," he agreed, taking a second. He lowered the cup.  
"Drink," came the command again. Patrick jumped.  
A second wobbly ascent was made to his lips. He took a deep swig and then his fingers could no longer grip. The cup followed the bottle to the ground, shattering.  
"Gravity, eh?" he tried to joke. His face was blanched, his lips cracked.  
"You look a little ill Patrick", said John, finishing his tea.  
"Yeah. Heh! I should'a let the coroner live."  
John cocked his ordinary head, lancing the unspoken question across the gap.  
"It was a— well friend is too strong a word," he bubbled through the sentence like a brook of stiff pea-soup.  
"Tell me."  
"He wanted to live—" he sucked-in a breath. "I needed to test the pills. It looked like suicide."  
John smiled at him, "And all this time, I thought you needed forming."  
"Framing?"  
"Seizing."  
Patrick emitted a lunatic giggle, "It was easy, like—" he lost the words.  
"What did you see? As he died," John asked, testing him, his voice lilting into a cough.  
"I made him watch my hands— the coin."  
"Ah, a classic." John coughed again.  
"He was there," Patrick said, shifting his feet level, "and then he wasn't."  
"I'm proud of you, Tyger," John said.  
"Symmetry."  
"Yes, exactly."  
The two foes held the silence. Patrick licked his lips.  
"Dry," he said in a croak.  
John wiped his own mouth.  
"When you cut me, ah—" Patrick moaned. "Leave my body up there," he looked uphill, through the windows. The lightning yanked the landscape into being and snatched it away again.  
"Perhaps," said the cold killer.  
"Unhh," Patrick winced, holding his stomach. After a moment of frantic panting, he collected his breath.  
"What did," he paused, "—what did my daughter say to you?"  
"I used my knife, wet with Angela's blood. She asked what it was."  
Patrick sighed, "That sounds like my baby."  
John coughed again; wiped his mouth.  
"She said she liked to play the piano." Patrick glanced-up.  
"Do you believe it's me now?" John chuckled, cutting it short and touching his throat.  
"I do," Patrick nodded.  
Another cough, "I don't feel—"  
"How will you take Lisbon?" Patrick asked, cutting him off.  
John was moving, shifting in the chair.  
"When I feel like it," his voice was higher.  
"Would you like some water?"  
John whipped his head-up. Patrick sat, erect, a smile cutting his face.  
"What? You—"  
"There's a bottle near your chair. Shall I get it for you?"  
John shoved his seat backwards, it tossed like cardboard. He roared as he trod the table, crushing the wood. He lunged towards Patrick.  
At the same instant, Patrick pushed his seat, his feet kicking. The broom-sticks that he had laid beneath rolled it backwards rapidly. As John let his mass plummet down, his target was suddenly gone. The plain red man smacked the ground, his left arm slipping on pig entrails.

Jane spilled from his chair and snatched a bowl of bad blood he'd stashed. He circled around. John was already rising but he slipped again. His face was a new mask, rage and outrage deforming it.  
Patrick tossed the vile funk directly into his red eyes.  
John grabbed his face, trying to get the stuff out. He was screamed without volume.  
"Cat got your tongue?" Patrick mocked, from a discrete distance.  
Red John held his chest and head aloft on one arm. His only eye found Patrick's. He held the arrogant stare for a severing moment and then flopped, boneless to the ground.

Patrick wobbled, felt his legs go, and crumpled to the floor. The wind howled, the lightning soothed; the monster was dead.


	15. Chapter 15

_I can't tell if the previous chapter was any good. I hope so. I thought it went well.._

_Sorry about the delay, here's the start of the end. (It may take a little while, but I will finish the story.)_

**Red or alive.**

The land-cruiser tore into the village. The sun was rising behind sheets of rain and, by some whim of irony, an intense rainbow greeted them.  
"Where is he?" Teresa asked, her hands clutching the seatbelt.  
Agent Thomas had installed GPS software onto all their phones; Mtutu was quite pleased.  
"Five hundred metres, on the left," Wayne spoke from the back seat.  
"No other signals," Cho confirmed.  
"It's not the Restios, Boss," Wayne cried.  
Bakeni slapped the back of the driver's seat, "Hamba Mtutu!" Go, go, go.  
"Almost there, it has to be on the left. Here!"  
The vehicle careened up the drive.

..xx..

Teresa was first through the door. She was cautious; it was dark within so she had to peek around the edge until her eyes adjusted. The team were arrayed behind her, all of them straining to hear.  
Gradually she began to see differences in shape and form. She suppressed a gasp as she realized a man was standing only a metre from her. She made a sign to warn the others.  
"What do you see?" Wayne whispered close to her ear.  
"One man, standing dead-still, back to the door."  
She flagged Bakeni, "Go around the side, cover the back."  
Bakeni and Mtutu slid-off to find a route.  
She took a deeper look into the room. The man was behaving very strangely, waving slightly from side to side, but not moving. She decided to take a chance and stepped to the other side of the doorway, behind him. Nothing changed.  
She motioned again and then crouched and took one step into the dim interior.  
Without the bright contrast of the outside she could see better. To her left, the space opened.  
"Oh!" she could not stop the exclamation when she saw the smiling x-eyed symbol on the far wall. She froze, listening. All was silence.  
She took another step, now her weapon was directly in the man's back. She felt a deep sense of dread but dipped her head to look past him.  
Jane was on the ground, a broken doll; discarded. Her pulse began to race.  
Not now, control it.  
She stepped back and called for support, pointing to the man. Cho and Rigsby moved past her, while she went to the opposite wall.  
In seconds, her eyes completed the adjustment and she began to see blood — everywhere. She nodded at them, indicating they should take the man outside. They rushed him. Cho took him by the waist and pulled backwards. Wayne let them pass and grabbed his legs.  
Nothing changed, only Jane, a tissue crumpled and forgotten.  
She held her nerve, scanning every corner as she took several more steps.  
On the left, mixed with a shattered table was another body. From a corridor directly ahead, she heard a sound. She tensed as her weapon found the spot. A door began to open.  
She exhaled; Bakeni. He signed to say all-clear. Teresa lowered her weapon and crouch-walked to where Jane lay.  
She signalled again and her team moved to cover the other body.

I can't touch him. What if? She stood looking down at him. He was covered in blood and his lips looked diseased. He was slumped over, forward, the side of his face touching the ground. It was a deeply disturbing position; unnatural, obnoxious.

"Dead," Cho announced, removing his fingers from the other body.  
At his words, she dropped to her knees and sought Jane's pulse. A feint throb under her fingers reignited her.  
"Get the med-kit in here!" she shouted.  
Wayne came to help as she gently raised Jane.  
"Stand back," she hissed.  
Written on the floor, in blood, was a single word, "Poison."  
"Everyone!" she shouted, "Touch nothing!"  
Cho looked at his fingers and then dashed to find water.  
"Shit," said Teresa.  
"Gloves," Bakeni spoke from behind her. He handed her a pair.  
"Boss," Mtutu said, poking his head from the kitchen. He had found the remains of Jane's work.  
"Get that," Bakeni waved at it, "into a box."

..xx..

There was no real ambulance service in the remote place, but they managed to hire a small emergency service from one town over. Jane was in a stretcher, drip-lines ran across his body. His blood-covered skin had not been touched; it was deemed too risky without knowing what poisons were involved.  
Two men began loading him into the small van. Teresa asked them to wait for a moment.  
"Jane?" she held her face close to his.  
His eyes moved under closed lids, his discoloured lips opened and closed.  
"I hope you can hear me," she said quietly, "please come back."  
She fought tears. Where they came from and what it all meant was an unread book. She wiped her eyes.  
"Come back. Okay? Don't be stubborn."  
She rose and asked one of the men, "What can you tell me?"  
"Can't say, Ma'am. He has no physical damage — just this unknown poison."  
"Where are you taking him?"  
"The best poisons unit is at Groote Schuur hospital in Cape Town."  
"Fine," she stood back, holding her arms near her stomach.  
They took him.

"He'll live," Cho said, approaching her. She blinked and wiped her cheeks, before turning to face him.  
Cho's face softened when he saw hers, "You know Jane, even drowning doesn't stop him."  
She smiled at her friend; let slip a nervous chuckle.  
He drew her into a walk, back to the crime-scene.

"Do you think that's really him?" Wayne asked them at the front door.  
She didn't know, but she nodded.  
Wayne's face darkened, "But— he's so plain, unremarkable."  
She held his arm as they walked inside.

..xx..

Teresa spent two days at the hospital. During that time the others cleared the scene and moved the unknown body to the coroner. Jane was still in a coma of some kind, but he'd been carefully stripped and cleaned, under constant monitoring and supervision.  
The long gloves on his hands had been a surprise. She'd been there when they removed his shirt and found them.  
The doctor's brows rose, "This man was prepared."  
"Careful with that, don't let it slip and touch his skin," another said.  
They worked slowly, rolling the gloves down, shifting a plastic guard along.  
"He covered himself in poison, can you believe that?"  
She could.

"Hey Boss," Wayne joined her in the vast main corridor. Hundreds of people used it to get from one side of the sprawling complex to the other. Medical students flocked in gaggles, some moving rapidly, some wandering.  
"How's Grace?" she asked.  
"Much better, up and smiling," he beamed. She could see how happy he was with that simple fact. She touched his arm and he smiled.  
"Are you going to sort it out?" she asked him.  
He bounced his head up and down, "Yeah— I can't keep pretending."  
I know what you mean, she thought.  
"Even if — you know.. The rules?" she asked.  
"Whatever it takes," he said, still cheerful but determined.  
"I'm sorry it has to be that way," she sighed.  
"Meh," he said following it with a proud grin. "You like it? I got that one from Jane."  
She grinned back.  
"Go. Be with your girl," she said, giving him a small push.  
He hesitated. She waved him off.

It was late, the sun was setting as she returned to the ward. His was the first bed of the row, the curtains were drawn around it. Her heart rate increased as she sought the slit and drew it open.  
"Oh, Mrs. Lisbon," said an intern, looking up.  
"Is he?" she asked in a rush.  
"He's fine. In fact, he opened his eyes a minute ago."  
The young woman finished placing a new drip and bid Teresa good night.  
She watched his sleeping face while the monitor peeped softly. His eyelids flickered.  
"Hey," she whispered.  
"Lis— bon?"  
"I'm here," she clutched his hand.  
Jane smiled, his lips fresh and restored.  
"You really scared me Jane," she squeezed his hand.  
He answered with his face, a quick summary of many of emotions.  
"I," his tongue wet his lips, "—I got him Teresa."  
"You did Patrick," she replied, irrationally happy about the easy shift into first names.  
"Got him," he repeated, falling into another sleep.

..xx..

The next day was consumed by the mess Jane had caused — a situation which approached normal. Teresa left early, frustrated by the red-tape and worried that Jane may be charged with homicide.  
She felt like a robot. As it had begun, so many months ago when she'd burned the law, so it continued — a malaise of autonomy. She knew she had to get some sleep and returned to the hotel. There were many things about her old life that no longer applied, and a few new things that might not fit.  
Her phone rang.  
"Teresa?"  
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked.  
"Bored. Alive, and bored. It's dull here, where are you?"  
She smiled into the phone, he was such a child.  
"I'm just about to collapse at the hotel."  
"I have a much better plan," he said in a mischievous voice.  
"Oh no! What are you up to Jane?"  
He chuckled, "Nothing! The tubes are all plugged-in and that noisy machine is still beeping like Pacman."  
"And?" she felt the trick coming, it was her sixth-sense.  
There was a knock on her door.  
"Hold on, there's someone—" she held the phone by her shoulder and opened it.  
"Yeah, you see," she said, resigned, "I knew it would be you."  
Jane flashed her a grin, "Come on, I know a much nicer place," he snatched her phone.  
"Hey!" she grabbed after it. He neatly closed the door, leaving them outside.  
Teresa slumped her shoulders.  
"Jane, I'm tired. And you—" she wagged a finger, "should be in hospital. And don't say—"  
"Meh," he ducked, laughing, his eyes twinkling.  
"—That," she finished, feeling herself smile.  
"So what exactly are all those tubes plugged-into?" she asked.  
"Oh, you'll like this one," he propelled her along, one hand on her lower-back.  
"They'll never notice. I can be very creative with pillows."  
"You made a dummy?" she shook her head, enjoying the mirth bubbling from him.  
"Well, that and the guy three beds down who's in a coma anyway."  
"Jane!" she cried and stared at him, her mouth open.  
He wiggled his eyebrows, "Aha! Gotcha, didn't I?"  
She crossed her arms.  
"Oh come on Lisbon, you don't think I'd drag an unconscious man out of his bed and stick tubes into him?"  
She kept her fuming-face, "With you, there _is_ no limit."  
He stuck his hands in the air, "I swear officer, I'm not the guy."  
"Grrr," she slapped at him with the back of her hand. He grinned again, motioning her to follow.  
"Anyway, where would you rather be?" he asked, leading her towards the stairs. "Alone, in a depressing hotel, or in front of a warm fire hearing the story?"  
When he put it that way, she really didn't have a choice.  
"Fine," she acquiesced, "but I'm driving."

The drive was slightly awkward. Jane avoided her initial questions by commenting on the night-time scenery. They skirted the harbour and crossed the city, heading for a neck between Table Mountain and the Lion that guarded it.  
The moon was rising behind and it touched the cascading houses and the dark sea below with silver fingers. She leaned forward to get a better look, glancing to the side — he was gone again, into his head.

The circus was clean. All the papers from the file were gone; the dirty rust-filled ring was freshly-laid with sawdust. Gentle tones of yellow and white suffused the place.  
He took his customary position on the little bench in the centre.  
"Are you here?" he asked.  
A soft wind blew a vortex and he saw the ghost form within particles of dust.  
"For a while," she said, crossing the circle on a radius toward him.  
He patted the bench and she sat beside him.  
"I know what you're going to say," she said. Her voice distant, coming not from her intangible lips but from far above his head.  
"I'm a bad man," he said it anyway.  
"Get over it."  
"So, it's true then?"  
"You are a fool, I'll give you that," she said.  
"I thought— I don't know. I thought there'd be something more sharp about—"  
"His death?"  
He said nothing.  
"Patrick," she said, her voice closer, "look back."  
She waved and a gust of wind stirred another cloud. He watched himself be sketched by the dust.  
"Here you brought a baby to a couple without hope," he saw their faces as they took the child.  
"Here, you spared a girl from a life of shame and punishment," another scene formed; him leading Teresa and a girl away from the Juvenile system.  
That dissolved and another image conjured. Him, tipping a hat to a woman in a car as she watched her tormentors turning on each other.  
The cloud settled.  
"There are many more. You know it."  
Her hand touched his, it prickled.  
"Would a bad man have cared? Would he have closed the circle of all those lives with joy and comfort?"  
When he did not reply, Angela laughed at him, "Oh don't resist so. Humility has its place, but not in here darling."  
He felt a little better, and then immediately doubted.  
"Ah," said Angela. "You are worried about hurting her."  
"Yes," he nodded.  
"Who can know the future?"  
"It's the past I worry about," he replied.  
"Then it's a past that you can trust."  
"Do you mean that?" he looked into her dusty eyes.  
"Yes. Have a little faith."  
He smiled. She lifted her hand, the touch leaving a warm patch.  
"Time to make a change in here," she said, floating away and drifting across the ring.  
"I'm going," she said, her voice moving upward.  
"I understand," he told himself.  
"Open it, Patrick. Open the ring," she said, fading from view.

"You back?" Teresa was asking, stealing glances at him.  
"Yes," he said, looking at her. "Steady!" he indicated the road in alarm.  
She corrected her aim and asked, "Are you going to go — away — often?"  
"Not any more," he said.  
"Good."


	16. Chapter 16

_So, here it is. I thought about making this ending longer, but I have reached my own limits._

_Thanks to all those who reviewed and supported me. I have found some good stories from your profiles which will keep me busy until the end of September. _

**All's well that starts well.**

They didn't speak about that evil night; both of them fell into a quiet agreement that comfort was more important. They shared food and bantered about trivialities. He wanted to tell her everything, but the moment wasn't right.  
"You really are tired," he said, sitting alongside her on the couch. He'd finished preparing the fire while she sipped at a mug of cocoa. He'd watched her gradually relax until her head was tilted against the couch, the mug in her lap.  
His words roused her, "Wha?" She yawned, "Guess I am."  
"Here—" he stood again and fetched some pillows. "Try these."  
Teresa grabbed two and stuffed them in place. He took her mug and placed it safely aside. A moment later, she felt him covering her with a blanket. She groaned a little as she snuggled into it, feeling the warmth of the fire stroking her last vestiges into sleep.  
Jane resumed his seat, a little further away, and simply bathed in the wonder of her presence. To him, she was warmer than the fire.

..xx..

Teresa woke from a dreamless sleep. For a while she enjoyed the sound of the ocean and the sheer luxury of the soft couch. She could see the fire had burned-down low. I'll just stoke it a bit, she thought and tried to move her leg.  
Something was holding it down. She sat-up to see Jane tipped-over against her; he was asleep, using her leg as a pillow.  
She tried to gently untangle his hands but he came awake anyway.  
"Hello," he said, still sleepy.  
She made a show of what he was doing. He shrugged, still holding her leg.  
"I need that," she said with a little pout.  
"So do I," he retorted, "get your own pillow."  
She laughed as she swatted at his head, pulling her leg free.  
"Not fair!" He complained, falling into the couch.  
She half-rolled to the fire and began poking it.  
"Add a few more logs," he suggested.

A little later,  
"You poisoned the tea bags?" She asked incredulously.  
Jane nodded, "I left one in ten clean."  
She opened her mouth, "You gambled?"  
He looked pained, "An experienced gamble. A card-pushers gamble."  
"You're a tea-pusher now?"  
He chuckled, "I was up against a master of these arts, I couldn't do anything to tip my hand."  
"Hence all the," she grimaced, her hands illustrating her torso, "blood and—"  
"Blood and gore, yes," he took another sip of tea.  
She shook her head, an involuntary shudder that moved down her body.  
"It was a delicate act," he continued. "He had to believe that I'd gone a little mad and that helped sell the idea I was dying."  
"But those tea-bags?" She came back to it again.  
"Two cups, fifty-fifty," he confessed.  
She swallowed and glanced down, holding the warm cocoa in both hands.  
He began to explain himself in a rush, trying to impress the urgency of the moment.  
She stopped him with a look.  
"I get it Jane. I take educated risks all the time too."  
He smiled, knowing she meant it.  
"One thing though," she scowled. "Your lips?"  
"Nasty weren't they?" he said.  
She blanched; recovered, "Some kind of make-up?"  
"Yep. It really did dry them out. I wanted my face to visibly sicken."  
"Unbelievable," she breathed and then took a sip to hide her shock.  
Jane was crouched nearby, facing her. She was leaning into the couch arm with her knees up, covered in the blanket. His hand was fiddling with one edge while the other took a tea cup to his lips.  
"You covered yourself in poison," she said, still astounded.  
He nodded.  
"I wore gloves," he said quickly, to ameliorate her concern.  
"And yet you still ended-up in a coma for two days."  
"True. The antidote wasn't quite as advertised."  
"Antidote?" She asked, surprised.  
"Of course. I had every intention of seeing him into the ground without following."  
Her eyes could not have grown wider.  
"You are— something else," she croaked.  
"Well, it was a bit chancy there too," he continued. "You alright?"  
She shook again as if the room were a fridge, the coals ice-cubes.  
"F- fine," she took another sip.  
He wanted to finish the story, to get it past him. Past them.  
"Chancy how?" she asked.  
"I used two poisons. One—"  
"Two?" she said, a little louder.  
"Some people build resistance to poison on purpose," he continued, "by poisoning themselves in small doses over time. I rather think John was like that."  
"So you wanted to make sure?"  
"The tea, and another one — a neuro-toxin," he slapped his wrist. "Goes through the skin."  
He could see by her expression that she recalled the case.  
"Hence my gloves. It's that poison which nearly got me."  
"I don't know how I feel about this," she said hesitantly.  
"Yes you do."  
She glared at him, "Okay, you want it?"  
He nodded yes.  
"I feel you don't care. Like you could leave at any moment."  
Her hands gripped her mug, her eyes bored into his, "Like you did this for yourself, in the end — you left—"  
He ran his hand up her shin and held her knee.  
"I did this for you."  
"No, you didn't," she would not listen. "Don't look so hurt. You said you'd help me arrest him, instead you went on some mad suicide mission."  
"I had to move!" he exclaimed. "There was only one moment — John opened it on purpose."  
"I know this Jane," she shook again. "But you told me to watch your actions, remember?"  
A nod.  
"And what you did was leave, exclude me."  
He withdrew his hand, holding his cup like she held her mug.  
"I did what I had to do."  
"I know," she repeated, more softly.  
"If I'd hesitated— you'd" he choked, "be dead."  
She looked askance, feeling ashamed. She knew what he'd done and why. Why am I angry with him? Why do I feel afraid? Why so detached?  
Her trunk lid bulged, the lock straining.  
"Lisbon," he was saying. She fought to bring her attention back.  
"You don't see it do you?" she said at length.  
His face was the picture of loss, of too late.  
"Tell me then," he said.  
"You killed John for yourself. Your vengeance. Don't deny it."  
He shook his head, tried to find words. She waited.  
"It was more than that because—"  
"Because what?"  
"Because I've changed," he stated. "I changed before this happened, how can I convince you?"  
She shifted, uncomfortable. What did she want here?  
"Please forgive me," he said intently. "I'll redeem myself, you'll see."  
That earned a tight little smile.  
"I'll wait," he said while he did something with his hands.  
"Here's the first sign," he revealed his ring in the tips of his long fingers. Teresa gasped, her eyes following as he flicked it deftly — into the fireplace.  
"Jane—"  
He looked at her — into her  
"No more past," he promised.  
Now that _was_ an action, she thought.  
"Okay," she said in a whisper, "I'm here aren't I?"  
He smiled his thanks.  
She stretched her legs out, shifting onto her side. Her hand told him to move closer.  
"Let's sleep on it?" She asked, inviting him to slide behind her.  
"I can do sleep," he beamed.  
They did, sharing the blanket, the couch and something new.

..xx..

The rest of the story can tell itself. I rather think Jane goes free and they all return to Sacramento.

I picture Wayne asking him, "Thanks for killing him."  
Jane replies, "I didn't do it for you."  
Wayne is hurt, he begins to turn away.  
Jane says, "But I would have."

I suspect they may never know much more about Red John. Perhaps they get a name and a past, perhaps not. I don't think it matters to the new Jane, and all that matters to Lisbon is the present going into the future. I think she gets her trunk open and that Jane enjoys every moment. I think they live happily ever after.

Thanks for reading. See you on the other side.


End file.
